A 


BY  ROM  A  IN  ROLLAND 

JEAN-CHR1STOPHE 
JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 
JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:   JOURNEY'S   END 
COLAS  BREUGNON,  BURGUNDIAN 
CLERAMBAULT 
THE  MUSICIANS  OF  TODAY 
SOME  MUSICIANS  OF  FORMER  DAYS 
BEETHOVEN 
HANDEL 

MUSICAL  TOUR  THROUGH  THE  LAND 
OF  THE  PAST 

THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  JULY 
THE  PEOPLE'S  THEATER 
PIERRE  AND  LUCE 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE 


BY 

ROMAIN  HOLLAND 


Translated  by 
CHARLES  DE  KAY 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  In  U.  S.  A. 


2.6  3  5" 
ftr  r  TV*. 


THE  ISLE  OF  CALMS 

"Just  as  the  Gulf  Stream  embraces  the  Sargasso 
Sea  into  which  gradually  drift  the  odds  and  ends 
that  are  carried  away  by  the  marine  currents  into 
the  regions  of  calm,  so  does  our  aerial  current 
surround  a  region  where  the  air  is  still.  It  is  called 
THE  ISLE  or  CALMS." 


M528986 


DURATION  OF  THE  STORY 

From  Wednesday  evening,  January  30,  to 
Good  Friday,  May  29,  1918, 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

PIERRE  plunged  into  the  subway.  A 
feverish,  a  brutal  crowd.  On  his  feet  near 
the  door,  closely  pressed  in  a  bank  of  human 
bodies  and  sharing  the  heavy  atmosphere 
passing  in  and  out  of  their  mouths,  he  stared 
without  seeing  them  at  the  black  and  rum- 
bling vaults  over  which  flickered  the  shining 
eyes  of  the  train.  The  same  heavy  shadows 
lay  in  his  mind,  the  same  gleams,  hard  and 
tremulous.  Suffocating  in  the  raised  collar 
of  his  overcoat,  his  arms  jammed  against  his 
sides  and  his  lips  compressed,  his  forehead 
damp  with  perspiration  momentarily  cooled 

by  a  current  from  outside  when  the  door 
i 


2  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

opened,  he  tried  hard  not  to  see,  he  tried  not 
to  breathe,  he  tried  not  to  live.  The  heart 
of  this  young  fellow  of  eighteen,  still  almost 
a  child,  was  full  of  a  dull  despair.  Above 
his  head,  above  the  shadows  of  these  long 
vaulted  ways,  of  this  rat-run  through  which 
the  monster  of  metal  whirled,  all  swarming 
with  human  masks — was  Paris,  the  snow, 
the  cold  January  darkness,  the  nightmare  of 
life  and  of  death — the  war. 

The  war!  Four  years  ago  it  was,the  war 
had  come  to  stay.  It  had  weighed  heavily 
on  his  adolescent  years.  It  had  caught  him 
by  surprise  in  that  morally  critical  period 
when  the  growing  boy,  disquieted  by  the 
awakening  of  his  feelings,  discovers  with  a 
shock  the  existence  of  blind,  bestial,  crush- 
ing forces  in  life  whose  prey  he  is  and  that 
without  having  asked  to  live  at  all.  And  if 
he  happens  to  be  delicate  in  character,  tender 
of  heart  and  frail  as  to  body  in  the  way 
Pierre  was,  he  experiences  a  disgust  and 
horror  which  he  does  not  dare  confide  to 
others  for  all  these  brutalities,  these  nasti- 
nesses,  all  this  nonsense  of  fruitful  and 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE    ,          3 

devouring  nature — this  breeding  sow  that 
gobbles  up  her  litter  of  pigs. 

In  every  growing  youth  between  sixteen 
and  eighteen  there  is  a  bit  of  the  soul  of 
Hamlet.  Don't  ask  him  to  understand  the 
war!  (All  right  for  you  men,  who  have 
had  your  fill!)  He  has  all  he  can  do  to 
understand  life  and  forgive  its  existence. 
As  a  rule  he  digs  himself  in  with  his  dream 
and  with  the  arts,  until  the  time  comes  when 
he  has  got  used  to  his  incarnation,  and  the 
grub  has  achieved  its  agonizing  passage 
from  larva  to  winged  insect.  What  a  need 
he  has  for  peace  and  meditation  during  these 
April  days  so  full  of  the  trouble  of  maturing 
life!  But  they  come  after  him  to  the  bot- 
tom of  his  burrow,  look  him  up,  drag  him 
from  the  dark  while  still  so  tender  in  his 
new-made  skin.  They  toss  him  into  the  raw 
air  amongst  the  hard  human  race  whose 
follies  and  hatreds  he  is  expected  at  the  very 
first  moment  to  accept  without  understanding 
them  and,  not  understanding,  to  atone  for 
them. 

Pierre  had  been  called  to  military  service 


4  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

along  with  those  of  his  own  class,  boys  of 
sixteen  to  eighteen.  Within  six  months  his 
country  would  be  needing  his  flesh.  The 
jvar  claimed  him.  Six  months  of  respite. 
Six  months!  Oh,  if  one  could  only  stop 
thinking  at  all  from  this  time  to  that!,  Just 
to  stay  in  this  underground  tunnel!.  Never 
see  cruel  daylight  any  more!  .  .  . 

He  plunged  deeper  into  his  gloom  along 
with  the  flying  train  and  closed  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

4When  he  opened  them  again — a  few  steps 
away,  but  separated  by  the  bodies  of  two 
strangers,  stood  a  young  girl  who  had  just 
entered.  At  first  all  he  saw  of  her  was  a 
delicate  profile  under  the  shadow  of  her 
hat,  one  blonde  curl  on  a  somewhat  thin 
cheek,  a  highlight  perched  upon  the  smooth 
cheekbone,  the  fine  line  of  nose  and  lifted 
upper  lip,  and  her  mouth,  slightly  parted, 
still  quivering  a  little  from  her  sudden  rush 
into  the  car.  Through  the  portals  of  his 
eyes  into  his  heart  she  entered,  she  entered 
all  complete;  and  the  door  closed.  Noises 
from  without  fell  to  nothing.  Silence. 
Peace.  She  was  there. 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  jj 

She  did  not  look  at  him.  In  fact  she  did 
not  even  know  as  yet  of  his  existence.  And 
yet  she  was  there  inside  him.  He  held  her 
image  there,  speechless,  crushed  in  his  arms, 
and  he  dared  not  breathe  for  fear  that  his 
breath  might  ruffle  her. 

A  jostling  at  the  next  station.  Noisily 
talking,  the  crowd  threw  themselves  into  the 
already  packed  carriage.  Pierre  found  him- 
self shoved  and  carried  along  by  the  human 
wave.  Above  the  tunnel  vault,  in  the  city 
up  there,  certain  dull  reports.  The  train 
started  up  again.  At  that  moment  a  man 
quite  out  of  his  senses,  who  covered  up  his 
face  with  his  hands,  came  running  down  the 
stairway  of  the  station  and  rolled  down  on 
the  floor  at  the  bottom.  There  was  just 
enough  time  to  catch  sight  of  the  blood  that 
trickled  through  his  fingers.  .  .  .  Then 
the  tunnel  and  darkness  again.  In  the  car 
frightened  outcries:  "The  Gothas  are  at  it 
again!"  During  the  general  excitement 
which  fused  these  closely  packed  bodies  into 
one,  his  hand  had  seized  the  hand  that 


6  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

touched  him.  And  when  he  raised  his  eyes 
he  saw  it  was  She. 

She  did  not  pull  her  hand  away.  At  the 
pressure  of  his  fingers  hers  replied  in  a 
sympathy  of  emotion,  drawing  together  a 
bit,  and  then  letting  themselves  go,  soft  and 
burning,  without  budging.  Jhus  the  two 
remained  in  the  protective  darkness,  their 
hands  like  two  birds  hid  in  the  same  nest; 
and  the  blood  from  their  hearts  ran  in  a 
single  flood  through  the  warmth  of  their 
palms.  They  said  no  word  to  one  another. 
His  mouth  almost  touched  the  curl  on  her 
cheek  and  the  tip  of  her  ear.  They  did  not 
make  a  gesture.  She  did  not  look  at  him. 
Two  stations  beyond,  she  loosed  her  hand 
from  his,  which  did  not  keep  her,  slipped 
between  the  bodies  and  left  without  having 
looked  at  him. 

When  she  had  vanished  it  occurred  to  him 
to  follow  .  .  .  Too  late.  The  train  was 
in  motion.  At  the  next  stop  he  ran  up  to 
the  surface.  There  he  found  the  nocturnal 
cold,  the  unseen  touches  of  some  flakes  of 
snow  and  the  City,  frightened  and  amused 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  7 

at  its  fright;  above  it  very  high  in  the  air 
circled  the  warlike  birds.  But  he  saw  only 
her,  the  one  who  was  within  him;  and  he 
reached  home  holding  the  hand  of  the 
unknown  girl. 


PIERRE  AUBIER  lived  witH  his  parents 
near  Cluny  Square.  His  father  was  a 
municipal  judge;  his  brother,  older  than  he 
by  six  years,  had  volunteered  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war.  A  good  sound  family  of 
the  bourgeois  class,  excellent  folks,  affec- 
tionate and  human,  never  having  dared  to 
think  for  themselves  and  very  probably 
never  imagining  that  such  a  thing  could  be. 
Profoundly  honest  and  with  a  lofty  sense  of 
the  duties  of  his  office,  Judge  Aubier  would 
have  rejected  with  indignation  as  a  supreme 
insult  the  suspicion  even  that  the  verdicts  he 
announced  could  have  been  dictated  by  any 
other  considerations  than  those  of  equity  and 
his  own  conscience.  But  the  voice  of  his 
conscience  had  never  spoken — let  us  better 
say  whispered — against  tKe  government. 
For  that  conscience  was  born  a  functionary. 
It  registered  thoughts  as  a  State  function — • 

8 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE,  9 

variable  but  infallible.  Established  powers 
were  invested  by  him  with  a  sacred  truth. 
He  admired  sincerely  those  souls  of  iron,  the 
great  free  and  unbending  magistrates  of  the 
past;  and  perhaps  secretly  believed  himself 
to  be  of  their  stock.  He  was  a  very  small 
edition  of  Michel  de  1'  Hospital  over  whom 
a  century  of  republican  slavery  had  passed. 

As  to  Madame  Aubier  she  was  as  good  a 
Christian  as  her  husband  was  a  good  repub- 
lican. Just  as  sincerely  and  honestly  as  he 
made  himself  a  docile  instrument  of  the  gov- 
ernment against  any  form  of  liberty  which 
was  not  official,  so  did  she  mingle  her  pray- 
ers, and  that  in  perfect  purity  of  heart,  with 
the  homicidal  vows  which  were  made  about 
the  war  in  every  country  of  Europe  by  the 
Catholic  priests,  the  Protestant  ministers,  the 
rabbis  and  the  popes,  the  newspapers  and  the 
right-minded  thinkers  of  the  time.  And  both 
of  them,  father  and  mother,  adored  their 
children  and,  like  true  French  people,  had 
for  them  only  a  profound,  essential  affection, 
would  have  sacrificed  everything  for  them, 
and  yet,  in  order  to  do  as  others,  would 


no  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

sacrifice  them  without  hesitation.  To  whom? 
Why,  to  the  unknown  god.  In  every  epoch 
Abraham  has  led  Isaac  to  the  funeral  pile. 
And  his  magnificent  folly  still  remains  an 
example  for  poor  human  beings. 

As  often  is  the  case,  at  this  family  hearth 
affection  was  great  and  intimacy  null.  How 
should  thoughts  communicate  freely  from 
one  to  the  other  when  each  one  forbore  a 
look  into  the  bottom  of  his  own  mind? 
Whatever  one  may  feel,  one  knows  that  cer- 
tain dogmas  at  any  rate  must  be  blinked, 
set  aside;  and  if  it  already  amounts  to  an 
embarrassment  when  the  dogmas  are  discreet 
enough  to  stay  within  the  limits  traced  for 
them  (that  was  the  case,  to  sum  all  up,  of 
those  belonging  to  the  beyond)  what  is  to  be 
said  when  they  pretend  to  mix  themselves 
with  life,  to  rule  life  entirely  as  our  laical 
and  obligatory  dogmas  actually  do?  Just 
you  try  to  forget  the  dogma  of  your  country!; 
The  new  religion  compelled  a  return  to  the 
Old  Testament.  It  was  not  to  be  made  com- 
fortable with  lip  devotion  and  innocent 
rituals,  Hygienic  and  ridiculous,  like  confes- 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  n 

sion,  Friday  fasting,  rest  on  Sunday,  which 
once  upon  a  time  incited  the  racy  spirit  of 
our  "philosophers"  during  the  period  when 
the  people  were  free — under  the  kings.  The 
new  religion  wanted  all,  was  not  satisfied 
with  less;  all  the  man  complete,  his  body, 
his  blood,  his  life  and  his  thinking  mind. 
Above  all  his  blood.  Since  the  time  of  the 
Aztecs  of  Mexico  never  was  there  a  divinity 
so  gorged  with  blood.  It  would  be  deeply 
unjust  to  say  that  the  believers  did  not  suffer 
from  this.  They  suffered,  but  they  believed. 
Alas  my  poor  brother  men,  for  whom  suf- 
fering itself  is  a  proof  positive  of  the 
divine!  .  .  . 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aubier  suffered  like  the 
others,  and  like  the  others  adored.  But 
from  a  growing  boy  one  could  not  demand 
such  abnegation  of  heart,  feeling  and  good 
sense.  Pierre  would  have  liked  to  compre- 
hend at  least  what  it  was  that  oppressed  him. 
What  a  lot  of  questions  burned  within  which 
he  could  not  utter!  For  the  very  first  word 
of  all  was,  "But  what  if  I  don't  believe  in  it 
at  all!" — a  blasphemy  just  to  start  with. 


12  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

No,  he  could  not  speak  out.  They  would 
have  gazed  at  him  in  a  stupor,  frightened, 
indignant — with  sorrow  and  shame.  And 
since  he  was  at  that  plastic  age  when  the  soul, 
with  a  bark  still  too  tender,  wrinkles  up  at 
the  slightest  breeze  that  comes  from  outside 
and  under  its  furtive  fingers  molds  its  form 
shudderingly,  he  felt  himself  beforehand 
sorrowful  and  ashamed.  Ah!  how  they 
believed,  all  of  them!  (But  did  they  really 
all  of  them  believe?)  How  was  it  they 
managed  it  then? — One  did  not  dare  to  ask. 
Not  to  believe,  standing  all  alone  among  all 
those  who  do  believe,  is  like  one  who  lacks 
some  organ,  superfluous  perchance,  but  one 
that  all  the  others  possess ;  and  so,  blushing, 
one  hides  one's  nudity  from  the  public. 

The  only  one  who  was  able  to  comprehend 
the  tortures  of  the  young  fellow  was  his  elder 
brother.  Pierre  had  for  Philip  that  adora- 
tion which  the  younger  ones  often  have  (but 
which  they  jealously  conceal)  for  the  older 
brother  or  sister,  some  stranger  comrade, 
at  times  merely  the  vision  of  an  hour  and 
lost  again — who  realizes  in  their  eyes  the 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  13 

dream  at  once  of  what  they  could  wish  to  be 
and  of  what  they  would  like  to  love :  chaste 
ardors  and  troublesome,  of  the  future,  formed 
of  mixing  currents.  The  big  brother  was 
aware  of  this  naive  homage  and  was  flat- 
tered by  it.  Not  so  long  ago  he  had  tried 
to  read  the  heart  of  the  little  brother,  and 
explain  things  to  him  with  discretion;  for, 
although  more  robust,  like  him  he  was 
molded  of  that  fine  clay  which,  among  the 
better  sort  of  men,  retains  a  little  of  the 
woman  and  does  not  blush  to  own  it.  But 
the  war  had  come  and  torn  him  away 
from  his  hard  working  career,  from  his  study 
of  the  sciences,  from  his  twenty-year-old 
dream  and  from  his  intimacy  with  his 
young  brother.  He  had  dropped  everything 
in  the  intoxicating  idealism  of  the  moment, 
like  a  big  crazy  bird  that  launches  out  into 
space  with  the  heroic  and  absurd  illusion 
that  his  beak  and  his  talons  will  put  an  end 
to  the  war  and  restore  to  earth  the  reign  of 
peace.  Since  then  the  big  bird  had  returned 
two  or  three  times  to  the  nest ;  each  time,  alas, 
a  little  more  worn  in  plumage.  He  had 


14  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

come  back  denuded  of  many  of  his  illusions, 
but  he  found  himself  too  much  mortified 
about  them  to  acknowledge  it.  He  was 
ashamed  to  have  believed  in  them.  Folly, 
not  to  have  known  how  to  see  life  as  it  is! 
Now  he  set  his  heart  upon  dissipating  its 
enchantment  and  accepting  it  stoically,  what- 
soever it  might  turn  out.  Not  himself  alone 
did  he  punish;  a  wretched  suffering  urged 
him  to  punish  his  illusions  in  the  heart  of 
his  young  brother,  where  he  found  that  they 
held  their  own.  At  his  first  coming  back, 
when  Pierre  had  run  up  to  him  burning  in 
his  walled-up  heart,  he  had  been  frozen  at 
once  by  the  welcome  his  elder  gave  him, 
affectionate  certainly,  always  affectionate, 
but  with  a  certain  harsh  irony  in  his  tone 
hard  to  fathom.  Questions  that  pressed 
forward  to  his  lips  were  pushed  back  on  the 
instant.  Philip  had  seen  them  coming  and 
cut  them  down  with  a  word,  with  a  look. 
After  two  or  three  attempts  Pierre  drew  back 
with  an  aching  heart.  He  did  not  recognize 
his  brother  any  more.  The  other  recognized 
him  only  too  well.  He  perceived  in  him 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  15 

what  he  himself  had  been  not  so  long  ago 
and  what  never  he  could  be  again.  He 
made  him  pay  for  it.  It  caused  him  regret 
afterward,  but  of  that  he  showed  no  sign  and 
just  began  over  again.  Both  of  them  suf- 
fered and,  through  a  too  common  misunder- 
standing, their  suffering,  so  much  alike,  so 
near,  which  ought  to  have  brought  them 
together,  only  separated  them.  The  sole 
difference  between  them  was  that  the  elder 
knew  that  it  was  near  while  Pierre  believed 
himself  alone  in  his  suffering  with  nobody 
to  whom  he  could  open  his  soul. 

Then  why  did  he  not  turn  toward  those  of 
his  own  age,  his  companions  at  school?  It 
might  seem  as  if  these  growing  youths  ought 
to  have  come  close  to  one  another  and 
mutually  given  one  another  support.  But 
nothing  of  the  kind.  On  the  contrary,  a 
sorrowful  fatality  kept  them  separate,  scat- 
tered in  little  groups,  and  even  in  the  inner 
circle  of  these  minim  groups  kept  them 
distant  and  reserved.  The  commoner  sort 
had  plunged,  eyes  closed,  head  foremost  into 
the  current  of  the  war.  The  larger  number 


1 6  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

drew  themselves  away  and  did  not  feel  any 
connection  with  the  generations  that  preceded 
them;  they  did  not  partake  in  any  way  of 
their  passions,  their  hopes  and  their  hatreds; 
they  were  bystanders  beside  all  the  frantic 
goings-on  like  men  who  are  sober  looking 
on  at  those  who  are  drunk.  But  what  could 
they  do  in  opposition?  Many  had  started 
little  magazines,  reviews  whose  ephemeral 
lives  were  snuffed  out  after  the  first  numbers 
for  lack  of  air;  the  censorship  produced  a 
vacuum;  the  entire  thought  of  France  was 
under  the  pneumatic  exhausting  bell.  Among 
these  young  fellows  the  most  distinguished 
ones,  too  feeble  to  rebel  and  too  proud  to 
complain,  knew  beforehand  that  they  were 
delivered  up  to  the  sword  of  war.  While 
they  waited  for  their  turn  at  the  slaughter- 
house they  looked  on  and  made  their  judg- 
ments in  silence,  each  one  by  himself,  with 
a  little  surprise  and  a  great  deal  of  irony. 
Through  a  disdainful  reaction  against  the 
mental  condition  of  the  herd  they  fell  back 
into  a  kind  of  egotism,  intellectual  and  artis- 
tic egotism,  an  idealistic  sensualism,  where 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  17 

the  tracked  and  hunted  ego  vindicated  its 
rights  against  human  fellowship.  Laugh- 
able fellowship,  which  made  itself  manifest 
to  these  adolescents  only  in  the  shape  of 
finished  murder,  one  undergone  in  common! 
A  precocious  experience  had  shriveled  their 
illusions:  they  had  seen  how  much  those 
same  illusions  were  worth  in  their  elders  and 
how  those  who  did  not  believe  in  them  paid 
for  them  with  their  lives.  Even  as  to  those 
of  their  own  age  and  as  to  man  in  general 
their  confidence  was  shaken.  And  besides, 
at  such  a  time  it  cost  something  to  confide 
in  people !  Every  day  one  learned  of  some 
denunciation  of  thoughts  and  intimate  con- 
versations by  a  patriotic  spy  whose  zeal  the 
government  honored  and  stimulated.  So  it 
was  that  these  young  people,  through  dis- 
couragement, through  disdain,  through  pru- 
dence, through  a  stoical  sense  of  their  solitude 
in  thought,  gave  themselves  very  little  indeed 
the  one  to  the  other. 

Pierre  could  not  find  among  them  that 
Horatio  whom  little  eighteen-year-old  Ham- 
lets seek.  If  he  had  a  horror  of  estranging 


1 8i  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

his  thought  from  public  opinion  (that  public 
woman)  he  did  feel  the  need  of  joining  it 
freely  with  souls  of  his  own  choosing.  He 
was  too  tender  to  be  able  to  content  himself 
with  himself.  He  suffered  from  the  uni- 
versal suffering.  That  crushed  him  by  the 
amount  of  its  pain,  which  he  exaggerated: — 
for  if  humanity  does  support  it  in  spite  of 
everything,  that  is  because  humanity  has  a 
harder  hide  than  is  the  delicate  skin  of  a  frail 
boy.  But  what  he  did  not  exaggerate  and 
what  weighed  him  down  much  more  than  the 
suffering  of  the  world  was  the  imbecility  of 
it  all. 

It  is  nothing  to  undergo  pain,  it  is  nothing 
to  die,  if  only  one  can  see  a  reason  for  it. 
Sacrifice  is  a  good  thing  when  one  under- 
stands why  it  is  made.  But  what  is  this 
why?  What  is  the  sense  of  this  world  and 
its  harrowings  for  a  youth?  If  he  be  sincere 
and  sound  of  mind,  in  what  way  can  he 
interest  himself  in  the  coarse  medley  of 
nations  standing  head  to  head  like  stupid 
rams  on  the  brink  of  an  abyss,  into  which  all 
are  about  to  tumble?  And  yet  the  road  was 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  19 

broad  enough  for  all.  Why  then  this  mad- 
ness to  destroy  oneself?  Why  these  coun- 
tries given  over  to  pride,  these  States  devoted 
to  rapine,  these  peoples  to  whom  is  taught 
murder,  as  if  murder  were  their  duty?  But 
wherefore  this  butchery  everywhere  among 
living  beings  ?  Why  this  world  that  devours 
itself?  To  what  purpose  the  nightmare  of 
that  monstrous  and  endless  chain  of  life, 
each  one  of  whose  links  sets  its  jaws  into  the 
neck  of  the  other,  feasts  on  its  flesh,  delights 
in  its  suffering  and  lives  through  its  death? 
Why  the  conflict  and'vshy  the  pain?  Why 
death?  Why  life?  JYhy?  Why?  .  .  . 
That  night  when  the  boy  got  home  the 
why  had  ceased  its  cry. 


NEVERTHELESS  nothing  had  changed. 
There  he  was  in  his  own  room  littered  with 
papers  and  books.  All  about  the  familiar 
sounds.  In  the  street  the  trumpet  sounding 
the  close  of  the  warning  against  airbombs. 
On  the  house  stairs  the  reassured  gossip  of 
the  tenants  coming  up  from  the  cellar.  In 
the  story  overhead  the  crazy  marching  to  and 
fro  of  the  old  neighbor  who  for  months  had 
been  waiting  for  his  vanished  son. 

But  here  in  his  own  chamber  lay  no  longer 
those  cares  of  his  in  ambush  which  he  had 
left  there.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  it  happens  that  an  incomplete 
accord  in  music  sounds  raucous  in  a  way;  it 
leaves  the  mind  disquieted,  up  to  the  moment 
when  some  note  is  added  which  procures  a 
fusion  of  the  hostile  or  coldly  alien  ele- 
ments, like  visitors  who  do  not  know  one 
20 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE    .        21 

another  and  wait  to  be  introduced.  At  once 
the  ice  is  broken  and  harmony  spreads  from 
one  member  of  the  group  to  another.  This 
moral  chemistry  had  just  been  put  in  opera- 
tion by  a  warm  and  furtive  contact  of  hands. 
Pierre  was  not  conscious  of  the  reason  for  the 
change;  he  never  dreamed  of  analyzing. 
But  he  felt  that  the  habitual  hostility  of 
things  in  general  had  suddenly  softened. 
A  shooting  pain  takes  possession  of  your 
head  for  hours;  of  a  sudden  you  perceive  It 
is  no  longer  there:  how  was  it  that  it  went? 
Scarcely  a  feeling  of  buzzing  about  the 
temples  to  recall  it.  ...  Pierre  was  a  bit 
suspicious  of  this  new-found  calm.  He 
suspected  that  it  concealed  under  a  passing 
truce  a  much  worse  return  of  the  pain  which 
was  merely  taking  breath.  Already  was  he 
acquainted  with  the  respites  that  are  ob- 
tained through  the  arts.  When  into  our 
eyes  penetrate  the  divine  proportions  of  lines 
and  colors,  or  into  the  voluptuous  windings 
of  the  sonorous  ear-shell  the  lovely,  varied 
play  of  accords  which  combine  and  interlock 
in  obedience  to  the  laws  of  harmonious  num- 


22  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

fcers,  peace  takes  possession  of  us  and  joy 
inundates  our  souls.  But  that  is  a  radiance 
which  comes  from  outside;  one  would  say 
from  a  sun,  the  distant  fires  of  which  hold 
us  in  suspense  fascinated,  lifted  high  above 
our  life.  It  endures  only  a  moment  and 
then  one  falls  again.  Art  is  never  more 
than  a  passing  forgetfulness  of  the  actual, 
the  real.  Pierre  was  afraid  and  fully  ex- 
pected the  same  deception. — But  this  time  the 
radiation  came  from  within.  Nothing  that 
belongs  to  life  was  forgot.  But  everything 
fell  into  harmony.  His  recollections,  his 
new  thoughts.  Even  to  the  familiar  objects 
about  him:  the  books  and  papers  in  his 
chamber  sprang  alive  and  took  on  an  interest 
which  they  had  lost. 

For  months  past  his  intellectual  growth 
had  been  compressed  like  a  young  tree  which 
is  struck  in  full  blossoming  by  the  "saints  of 
the  ice."  He  did  not  belong  to  those  prac- 
tical boys  who  profit  by  the  indulgence 
offered  at  universities  to  the  younger  classes 
just  about  to  be  called  to  the  colors  in  order 
to  pull  out  hastily  a  diploma  from  under  the 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE    .       23 

indulgent  eyes  of  the  examiners.  Nor  was 
he  one  to  feel  the  despairing  eagerness  of  the 
young  man  who  sees  death  approaching  and 
so  takes  double  mouthfuls  and  devours  the 
arts  and  sciences  which  he  will  never  have 
a  chance  to  test  and  verify  in  life.  That 
perpetual  feeling  of  emptiness  at  the  end, 
emptiness  that  is  underneath  and  everywhere 
hidden  beneath  the  cruel  and  absurd  illusion 
of  the  world — this  it  was  that  swept  aside 
all  his  enthusiasms.  He  would  throw 
himself  on  a  book,  on  a  thought — then  'he 
stopped,  discouraged.  Whither  would  that 
lead  ?  What  the  use  of  learning  ?  What  is 
the  point  of  getting  riches  if  it  be  necessary 
to  lose  everything,  leave  everything,  if 
nothing  really  belongs  to  you?  In  order 
that  activity,  in  order  that  science  should 
have  any  sense,  it  is  necessary  that  life 
should  have  some.  This  sense  no  effort  of 
the  mind,  no  supplication  from  the  heart  had 
been  able  to  produce  for  him. — And  yet,  lo 
and  behold,  all  of  itself,  this  sense  had 
come.  .  .  .  Life  had  some  sense.  .  .  . 
then? — And  seeking  to  find  whence 


24  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

came  this  inner  smile — he  beheld  the  parted 
lips  upon  which  his  mouth  was  burning  to 
press  itself. 


IN  ordinary  times,  no  doubt,  this  wordless 
fascination  would  not  have  persisted.  At 
that  period  of  upgrowth  when  one  is  a  lover 
of  love,  one  sees  love  in  every  eye;  the 
greedy  and  uncertain  heart  gathers  it  flitting 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  nothing  forces  it 
to  settle  down;  the  heart  is  just  beginning 
its  day. 

But  the  day  at  the  present  period  will  be 
a  short  one:  it  is  necessary  to  hurry  up. 

The  heart  of  this  young  fellow  was  in  a 
hurry  all  the  greater  because  it  was  so  much 
behindhand.  Great  cities  which  from  a  dis- 
tance appear  like  the  smoking  solfataras  of 
sensuality  really  harbor  fresh  souls  and 
ingenuous  bodies.  How  many  young  men 
and  young  girls  there  are  who  respect  love 
and  keep  their  senses  virgin  up  to  the  mar- 
riage day!  Even  in  the  refined  circles  where 
mental  curiosity  is  precociously  excited,  what 

25 


26  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

singular  ignorances  conceal  themselves  under 
the  free  talk  of  some  young  worldly  girl  or  of 
some  student  who  knows  everything  and 
understands  nothing !  In  the  heart  of  Paris 
there  are  provinces  most  naive,  little  gardens 
as  of  cloisters,  pure  existences  as  of  springs. 
Paris  permits  herself  to  be  betrayed  by  her 
literature.  Those  who  speak  in  her  name 
are  the  most  soiled  of  all.  And  besides,  one 
only  knows  too  well  that  a  false  human 
consideration  often  prevents  the  pure  from 
avowing  their  innocence. — Pierre  did  not  yet 
understand  love;  and  he  was  delivered  up  to 
the  first  appeal  love  made. 

This  also  added  to  the  enchantment  of  his 
thought:  that  love  had  been  born  under  the 
wing  of  death.  In  that  moment  of  emotion 
when  they  felt  the  menace  of  the  bombs  pass 
over  their  heads,  when  the  bloodstained 
apparition  of  the  wounded  man  contracted 
their  hearts,  then  it  was  their  fingers  groped 
toward  each  other;  and  both  of  them  had 
read  therein,  at  the  same  time  with  the 
quivering  of  the  flesh  that  was  frightened, 
the  loving  consolation  of  an  unknown 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  27 

friend.  Fleeting  pressure !  One  of  the  two 
hands,  that  of  the  man,  says:  "Lean  upon 
me!"  And  the  other,  the  maternal  one, 
pushes  aside  her  own  fear  in  order  to  say: 
"My  little  dear!" 

Nothing  of  all  this  was  uttered  or  heard. 
But  that  inward  murmur  filled  the  soul  far 
better  than  words,  that  curtain  of  foliage 
which  masks  our  thought.  Pierre  allowed 
"  himself  to  be  cradled  by  this  humming. 
Such  the  song  of  a  golden  wasp  that  floats 
through  the  chiaroscuro  of  one's  thought. 
His  days  became  numb  things  in  this  new 
languor.  That  solitary  and  naked  heart 
dreamed  of  the  warmth  of  a  nest. 

During  these  first  weeks  of  February, 
Paris  was  counting  her  ruins  from  the  last 
raid  and  licking  her  wounds.  The  press, 
locked  up  in  its  kennel,  was  barking  for 
reprisals.  And,  according  to  the  statement 
of  "the  Man  who  put  the  fetters  on,"  the 
government  was  making  war  on  the  French. 
The  open  season  for  suits  at  law  for  treason- 
able acts  commenced.  The  spectacle  of  a 
wretched  creature  who  was  defending  his 


28  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

own  head,  bitterly  demanded  by  the  public 
accuser,  was  a  matter  of  amusement  for 
Tout-Paris,  whose  appetite  for  the  theatre 
had  not  yet  been  satisfied  by  four  years  of 
war  and  ten  millions  of  dead  men  dissolving 
behind  the  flies. 

But  the  youth  remained  completely  and 
solely  absorbed  in  the  mysterious  guest  who 
had  just  come  to  make  him  a  visit.  Strange 
intensity  of  these  visions  of  love  printed  on 
the  very  floor  of  his  thought  and  nevertheless 
lacking  in  contour!  Pierre  would  have 
been  incapable  of  saying  what  was  the  form 
of  her  features  or  what  the  color  of  her 
eyes  or  the  modeling  of  her  lips.  All  he 
could  bring  back  was  the  emotion  already  in 
himself.  All  his  attempts  to  give  precision 
to  the  image  merely  ended  in  deforming  it. 
He  was  no  more  successful  when  he  went  to 
work  to  find  her  in  the  streets  of  Paris.  At 
every  turn  he  believed  he  had  seen  her.  It 
was  either  a  smile  or  a  white  young  neck  or 
a  gleam  in  some  eyes.  And  then  the  blood 
shook  in  his  heart.  There  was  no  resem- 
blance, none  whatever,  between  these  flying 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  23 

images  and  the  real  image  which  he  sought 
and  which  he  believed  he  loved.  JVell,  then, 
he  did  not  love  her?  Surely  he  loved  her; 
and  that  is  why  he  saw  her  everywhere  and 
under  every  shape.  For  she  just  is  every 
smile,  each  radiance,  all  life.  And  the  exact 
form  would  be  a  limitation. — But  one  longs 
for  that  limitation  in  order  to  clasp  love  and 
to  possess  it. 

Though  he  might  never  see  her  again  he 
knew  that  she  existed,  she  existed,  and  that 
she  was  the  nest.  In  the  hurricane  a  port. 
A  lighthouse  in  the  night.  Stella  Maris, 
'Amor.  Oh,  Love,  watch  over  us  at  the  hour 
of  death!' 


ALONG  the  quay  of  the  Seine  beside  the 
Institute  he  wandered,  looking  with  little 
attention  at  the  shelves  of  the  few  bou- 
quinistes  who  had  stuck  to  their  posts.  He 
found  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  of  the 
Pont  des  Arts.  Raising  his  eyes  he  per- 
ceived her  for  whom  he  had  waited.  A  port- 
folio of  drawings  under  her  arm,  she  came 
down  the  steps  like  a  little  doe.  He  did  not 
reflect  for  the  shadow  of  a  second ;  he  rushed 
forward  to  meet  her  and  while  he  ascended 
toward  her  Who  was  coming  down,  for  the 
first  time  their  gaze  rested  the  one  on  the 
other  and  entered.  Arrived  in  front  of  her 
and  stopping  short,  he  began  to  blush. 
Surprised,  seeing  that  he  blushed,  she  red- 
dened too.  Before  he  could  get  his  breatK 
again  the  little  deerlike  step  had  already  gone 
beyond  him.  When  strength  returned  and 
he  was  able  to  turn  about  her  skirt  was  dis- 

30 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  31 

* 

appearing  at  the  turning  of  the  arcade  which 
looks  upon  the  Rue  de  Seine.  He  did  not 
try  to  follow  her.  Leaning  against  the 
balustrade  of  the  bridge,  he  saw  her  own 
look  in  the  stream  that  flowed  below.  For 
some  time  his  heart  had  a  pasture  new.  .  .  . 
(Oh,  dear,  stupid  children!)  .  .  . 

A  week  later  he  was  loafing  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens  which  the  sun  was  filling 
with  a  golden  softness.  Such  a  radiant 
February  in  that  funereal  year!  Dreaming 
with  his  eyes  open  and  hardly  knowing  well 
whether  he  was  dreaming  what  he  saw,  or 
saw  what  he  was  dreaming,  steeped  in  a 
greedy  languor  obscurely  happy,  unhappy,  in 
love,  as  much  filled  full  of  tenderness  as  with 
the  sun,  he  smiled  as  he  strolled  with  inatten- 
tive eyes,  and  without  his  knowing  it  his  lips 
moved,  reciting  words  without  connection,  a 
song  of  some  kind.  He  looked  down  at  the 
sandy  path  and,  like  the  wingtip  of  a  dove 
that  passes,  he  had  an  impression  that  a  smile 
had  just  passed  along.  He  whirled  about 
and  saw  that  he  had  just  crossed  her  path. 
And  just  at  that  moment,  without  stopping  in 


32  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

her  walk,  she  turned  her  head  with  a  smile 
in  order  to  observe  him.  Then  he  hesitated 
no  longer  and  went  toward  her,  his  hands 
almost  extended  in  so  juvenile  and  naive  a 
rush  that  naively  she  waited  for  him.  He 
made  no  excuses  for  himself.  There  was  no 
awkwardness  between  them.  It  seemed  to 
them  they  were  continuing  an  interview 
already  begun. 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,"  said  he;  "you 
are  quite  right!" 

"I'm  not  laughing  at  you" — (her  voice 
like  her  step  was  lively  and  supple) — "you 
were  laughing  all  to  yourself;  I  merely 
laughed  at  seeing  you." 

"Was  I  laughing,  really?" 

"You  are  still  laughing  now." 

"Now  I  know  why." 

She  did  not  ask  him  what  he  meant. 
They  walked  side  by  side.  They  were 
happy. 

"What  a  jolly  little  sun! "  said  she. 

"Newly  born  springtide!" 

"Was  it  to  him  just  now  you  were  sending 
that  little  smile?" 


PIERRE 'AND  LUCE  33 

•'Not  to  him  alone.     Perhaps  to  you,  too." 

"Little  liar!  Bad  boy.  You  don't  even 
know  me." 

"As  if  one  could  say  such  a  thing!  We 
have  seen  each  other  I  don't  know  'how 
often!" 

"Thrice,  counting  this  time." 

"Ah — you  remember,  then  ?  You  see  that 
we  are  old  acquaintances !" 

"Let's  talk  about  it." 

"I'm  agreed.    That's  all  I  want!    . 
Oh,  come,  let  us  sit  there!     Just  an  instant, 
won't  you  please?     It's  so  nice  at  the  edge 
of  the  water!" 

(They  were  near  the  Galathea  Fountain, 
which  the  masons  had  covered  over  with 
tarpaulins  to  protect  it  from  the  bombs.) 

"I  really  can  not,  I  shall  miss  my  train." 

She  gave  him  the  hour.  He  showed  her 
that  she  had  more  than  twenty-five  minutes. 

Yes,  but  she  wanted  first  to  buy  her  lunch 
at  the  corner  of  Rue  Racine,  where  they  keep 
good  little  buns.  He  hauled  one  out  of  his 
pocket. 


34  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

"No  better  than  this  one.  .  .  .  Don't 
you  really  want  to  take  it?  .  .  ." 

She  laughed  and  hesitated.  He  put  it  in 
her  hand  and  kept  hold  of  her  hand. 

"You  would  give  me  such  pleasure !  .  .  . 
Come  now,  come  and  sit  down.  .  .  ." 

He  led  her  to  a  bench  in  the  middle  of  the 
walk  that  runs  about  the  basin. 

"I Ve  something  else.    .    .    ." 

He  brought  out  of  his  pocket  a  chocolate 
tablet. 

"Gourmand!  .  .  .  And  what  be- 
sides? .  .  ." 

"Only — I'm  ashamed.  It's  not  in  its 
wrapper." 

"Give  it  me,  give  it !     It's  just  the  war." 

He  looked  on  as  she  nibbled. 

"It's  the  first  time,"  said  he,  "that  I've 
thought  the  war  had  any  good  in  it." 

"Oh,  let's  not  talk  of  it!  It  is  so  com- 
pletely overwhelming ! " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  enthusiastic,  "we  shall 
never  speak  of  it." 

(All  of  a  sudden  the  atmosphere  began  to 
grow  lighter.) 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  35 

"Look  at  those  pierrots  who  are  taking 
their  tub." 

(She  pointed  to  the  sparrows  that  were 
attending  to  their  toilets  on  the  edge  of  the 
basin.) 

"But,  then— the  other  night"  (he  followed 
her  thought)  "the  other  night  in  the  sub- 
way— tell  me  now,  you  did  see  me  then?" 

"Sure." 

"But  you  never  looked  my  way.  All  the 
time  you  stayed  turned  in  the  other  direction. 
.  .  .  See  now,  just  as  at  present.  .  .  ," 

He  gazed  at  her  profile  as  she  nibbled  at 
her  bun,  looking  straight  ahead  of  her  with 
roguish  eyes. 

"Do  look  at  me  a  moment!  .  .  .  What 
are  you  gazing  at  off  there?" 

She  did  not  turn  her  head.  He  took  her 
right  hand,  the  glove  of  which  was  torn  at 
the  index,  and  showed  the  end  of  the  finger. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?" 

"And  you  examining  my  glove!1  .  >  . 
Will  you  be  so  kind  as  not  to  tear  it  more! " 

[In  a  distracted  fashion  he  was  engaged 
in  making  the  hole  larger.] 


36  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

"Oh,  forgive  mel  .  .  .  But  how  were 
you  able  to  see?" 

She  did  not  answer;  but  in  that  mocking 
profile  he  could  see  the  corner  of  her  eye  and 
that  was  laughing. 

"Oh,  you  slyboots!" 

"It's  very  simple.  Everybody  can  'do 
that." 

"I  never  could." 

"Just  try.    .    .    .    You  simply  squint." 

"I  never  could,  never.  In  order  to  see  it's 
necessary  for  me  to  look  right  to  the  front, 
stupidly." 

"Oh,  no,  not  so  stupidly! " 

"At  last!     I  see  your  eyes." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  gently  laugh- 
ing. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Luce." 

"That's  a  lovely  name,  lovely  as  this 
day!" 

"And  yours?" 

"Pierre — rather  worn  out." 

"A  fine  name — that  has  honest  and  clear 
eyes." 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  37 

"Like  mine." 

"Well,  yes,  so  far  as  clear  goes  they  are." 

"That's  because  they're  looking  at  Luce." 

"Luce?  .  v  .  People  say  'Mademoi- 
selle.' " 

"No." 

"No?" 

(He  shook  his  head.) 

"You  are  not  'Mademoiselle.'  You  are 
just  Luce  and  I  am  Pierre." 

They  were  holding  hands;  and  without 
looking  at  one  another,  their  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  tender  blue  of  the  sky  between  the 
branches  of  the  leafless  trees,  they  kept 
silence.  The  flood  of  their  thoughts  inter- 
mingled by  way  of  their  hands. 

She  said: 

"The  other  night  both  of  us  were  afraid." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "how  good  it  was." 

(Only  later  they  smiled  at  having  ex- 
pressed, each  one,  what  the  other  was  dream- 
ing of.) 

She  tore  her  hand  away  and  suddenly 
sprang  up,  having  heard  the  clock  strike. 


38  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

"Oh,  I  have  scarcely  more  than  time 
left  ..." 

Together  they  marched  at  that  little  quick- 
step the  Parisian  women  take  so  prettily,  so 
that  seeing  them  trot,  one  scarcely  thinks  of 
their  swiftness,  so  easy  appears  the  gait. 

"Do  you  pass  here  often?" 

"Every  day.  But  oftener  on  the  other 
side  of  the  terrace."  (She  pointed  to  the 
garden  with  its  Watteau  trees.)  "I  am  just 
back  from  the  Museum." 

(He  looked  at  the  portfolio  she  carried.) 

"Painter?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "that's  too  big  a  word. 
A  little  dauberette." 

"Why?     For  your  own  pleasure?" 

"Oh,  no  indeed!     For  money." 

"For  money?" 

"It's  horrid,  isn't  it?  to  make  art  for 
money?" 

"It's  particularly  astonishing  to  make 
money  if  one  cannot  paint." 

"It's  just  for  that  reason,  you  see.  I'll 
explain  it  to  you  another  time." 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  39 

"Another  time,  by  the  fountain,  well  have 
lunch  again." 

"We  shall  see.    If  it's  good  weather." 

"But  you  will  come  earlier?  Will  you 
not?  Say  yes  .  .  .  Luce  .  .  ." 

(They  were  come  to  the  station.  She 
jumped  on  the  running  board  of  the  tram 
car.) 

"Answer,  say  yes,  little  light !     .    .     ." 

She  did  not  answer;  but  When  the  tram 
was  in  motion  she  made  a  "yes"  with  her 
eyelids  and  he  read  on  her  lips  without  her 
having  spoken: 

"Yes,  Pierre." 

Both  of  them  thought,  as  they  went  their 
way: 

"It's  amazing,  this  evening,  what  a  happy 
look  everybody  has! " 

And  they  kept  smiling  without  taking 
heed  of  what  had  occurred.  They  knew  only 
that  they  had  it,  that  they  possessed  it  and 
that  it  belonged  to  them.  It?  What? 
Nothing.  We  feel  rich  this  evening !  .  .  . 
On  getting  home  they  looked  at  themselves 
carefully  in  the  mirror  just  as  one  looks  at  a 


40  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

friend,  with  loving  eyes.  They  said  to 
themselves:  "That  gaze  of  his,  of  hers,  was 
fixed  on  you"  They  went  to  bed  early, 
overcome — but  wherefore? — by  a  delicious 
weariness.  JVTiile  they  undressed  they  kept 
thinking: 

"What's  best  of  all  at  present  is,  that 
there's  a  tomorrow." 


TOMORROW!  .  .  .  Those  who  come 
after  us  will  have  some  difficulty  in  under- 
standing what  silent  despair  and  weariness 
of  spirit  without  grounds  that  word  evoked 
during  the  fourth  year  of  the  war.  .  .  .  Oh, 
such  a  weariness !  So  many  times  had  hopes 
been  destroyed!  Hundreds  of  tomorrows 
just  like  yesterday  and  today  followed  on, 
each  similarly  devoted  to  emptiness  and 
waiting — to  waiting  for  emptiness.  Time 
no  longer  ran.  The  year  was  like  a  river 
Styx  which  encircles  life  with  the  circuit  of 
its  black  and  greasy  waters,  with  its  somber, 
watery,  silky  flood  that  seems  no  longer  to 
move.  Tomorrow?  Tomorrow  is  dead. 

In  the  hearts  of  these  children  Tomorrow 
was  resuscitated  from  the  grave. 

Tomorrow  saw  them  seated  again  near  the 
fountain.  And  tomorrows  followed  one 
another.  The  fine  weather  favored  these 

41 


42  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

very  brief  meetings,  every  day  a  little  less 
brief.  Each  one  brought  a  lunch  in  order 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  exchanging.  Pierre 
now  waited  at  the  door  of  the  Museum.  He 
wanted  to  see  her  art  works.  Although  she 
was  not  proud  of  them  she  did  not  make  him 
beg  at  all  before  showing  them.  They  were 
reproductions  of  famous  paintings  in  minia- 
ture, or  portions  of  paintings,  a  group,  a 
figure,  a  bust.  Not  too  disagreeable  at  the 
first  glance  but  extremely  loose  in  drawing. 
Here  and  there  quite  true  and  pretty  touches ; 
but  right  alongside  the  mistakes  of  a  pupil, 
exhibiting  not  merely  the  most  elementary 
ignorance  but  a  reckless  ease  perfectly  care- 
less of  what  anyone  might  think. — " Enough ! 
Good  enough  the  way  they  are!" — Luce 
recited  the  names  of  the  pictures  copied. 
Pierre  knew  them  too  well.  His  face  was 
quite  drawn  from  his  discomfiture.  Luce 
felt  that  he  was  not  pleased;  but  she  sum- 
moned all  her  courage  to  show  him  every- 
thing— and  this  one  too.  .  .  .  Woof! 
.  .  .  it  was  the  ugliest  one  she  had!  ? 
She  kept  up  her  mocking  smile  which  was 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  43' 

directed  to  her  own  address  as  well  as  to 
Pierre's;  but  she  would  not  confess  to  her- 
self a  pinch  of  vexation.  Pierre  hardened 
his  lips  in  order  not  to  speak.  But  at  last  it 
was  too  much  for  him.  She  showed  him  a 
copy  of  a  Florentine  Raphael. 

"But  these  are  not  its  colors!"  said  he. 

"Oh,  well,  that  wouldn't  be  surprising," 
said  she.  "I  didn't  go  ajid  look  at  it.  I  took 
a  photo." 

"And  didn't  anybody  object?" 

"Who  ?  My  clients  ?  They  haven't  been 
to  look  at  it  either.  .  .  .  And  besides,  even 
if  they  had  seen  it,  they  don't  look  so  nar- 
rowly! The  red,  the  green,  the  blue — they 
only  see  the  fire  in  it.  Sometimes  I  copy  the 
original  in  colors,  but  I  change  the  colors. 
.  .  .  See  here,  for  instance,  this  one  .  .  ." 
(An  angel  by  Murillo). 

"Do  you  find  it's  better?" 

"No,  but  it  amused  me.  .  .  .  And  then, 
it's  easier.  .  .  .  And  besides,  it's  all  the 
same  to  me.  The  essential  thing  is  that  this 
will  sell.  ^  .  ." 

At  this  last  piece  of  boasting  she  stopped, 


44  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

took  the  color  sketches  from  him  and  burst 
out  laughing. 

"Ha!  So  they're  even  uglier  than  you 
had  expected?" 

He  said,  greatly  annoyed: 

"But  why,  why  do  you  make  things  like 
these?" 

She  examined  his  upset  visage  with  a 
kindly  smile  of  maternal  irony;  this  dear 
little  bourgeois  for  whom  everything  had 
been  so  easy  and  Who  could  not  conceive  that 
one  must  make  concessions  for  ... 

He  asked  once  more: 
;     "Why?     Tell  me,  why?" 

(He  was  quite  crestfallen,  as  if  it  was  he 
who  was  the  botcher  in  paint !  .  .  .  Dear 
little  boy!  She  would  have  liked  to  kiss 
him  .  .  .  very  properly,  on  his  fore- 
head!) 

She  answered  gently: 

"Why,  in  order  to  live." 

He  was  quite  overcome.  He  Ka3  never 
dreamed  of  it. 

"Life  is  complicated,"  she  went  on  in  a 
light  and  mocking  tone.  "In  the  first  place 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE,          45 

it  is  necessary  to  eat,  and  then  to  eat  every 
day.  In  the  evening  one  has  dined.  It's 
necessary  to  begin  again  the  next  day.  And 
then  it's  necessary  to  dress  oneself.  Dress 
oneself  completely,  body,  head,  hands,  feet. 
That's  so  far  as  clothing  is  concerned !  And 
then  pay  for  it  all.  For  everything.  Life, 
it's  just  paying." 

For  the  first  time  he  saw  what  had 
escaped  the  shortsightedness  of  his  love:  the 
modest  fur  in  some  places  worn,  the  shoes 
somewhat  the  worse  for  wear,  the  traces  of 
embarrassed  means  which  the  natural  ele- 
gance of  a  little  Parisian  woman  makes  one 
forget.  And  his  heart  contracted  within 
him. 

"Ah!  couldn't  I  be  allowed,  couldn't  I  be 
permitted  to  help  you?" 

She  moved  away  from  him  a  bit  and 
reddened: 

"No,  no,"  she  returned,  much"  upset, 
"there's  no  question  of  that.  .  .  .  Never!] 
...  I  have  no  need  .  .  ." 

"But  it  would  make  me  so  Happy  I/' 

"No.    .    .    .    Nothing  more  to  be  said 


46  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

about  that.     Or  we  shall  not  be  friends  any 


more 


"We  are  friends,  then?" 

"Yes.  Chat's  to  say,  if  you  are  so  still 
after  you  have  seen  these  horrible  daubs?" 

"Surely,  surely!      It  isn't  your  fault." 

"But  do  they  trouble  you?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

She  laughed  out  contentedly. 

"That  makes  you  laugh,  naughty  girl ! " 

"No,  it's  not  being  naughty.  You  do  not 
understand." 

"Then  why  So  you  laugh?" 

"I  shan't  tell  you." 

(She  was  thinking:  "Love!  how  kind  you 
are  to  be  troubled  because  I  have  done  some- 
thing that  is  ugly !") 

She  went  on: 

"You  are  so  kind.     Thank  you." 

(He  looked  at  her  with  astonished  eyes.) 

"Don't  try  to  understand,"  said  she,  tap- 
ping him  softly  on  his  hand.  .  .  .  "There, 
let's  talk  of  something  else.  ..." 

"Yes.  But  one  word  more.  .  .  .  Still, 
I  could  wish  to  know.  .  .  .  Tell  me  (and 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  47 

don't  be  hurt)  .  .  .  Are  you  at  the  present 
moment  a  bit  strapped?" 

"No,  no,  I  told  you  that  just  now,  because 
there  have  been  now  and  then  hard  times. 
But  now  it  goes  much  better.  Mama  has 
found  a  situation  where  she  is  well  paid." 

"Your  mother  is  at  work?" 

"Yes,  in  a  munitions  factory.  She  gets 
twelve  francs  a  day.  It's  a  fortune." 

"In  a  factory!     A  war  factory!" 

"Yes." 

"Why,  it's  frightful!" 

"Oh,  well !     One  takes  what  offers ! " 

"Luce!  but  if  you,  you  should  have  such 
an  offer?  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  me?  You  see  yourself,  I  just  daub. 
Ah!  You  perceive  now  that  I  have  good 
reason  to  make  my  smears!" 

"But  if  it  were  necessary  to  have  money 
and  there  were  no  other  way  than  to  work  in 
one  of  those  factories  that  produce  bomb- 
shells, would  you  go?" 

"If  it  were  necessary  to  make  money  and 
no  other  means?  .  .  .  Why,  surely!  I 
would  run  for  it." 


48  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

"Luce!  Do  you  realize  what  it  is  they're 
doing  in  there?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  about  it." 

"Everything  that  will  make  people  suffer, 
die,  that  tears  them  to  pieces,  that  burns,  that 
tortures  beings  like  you,  like  me  .  .  ." 

She  put  her  hand  on  her  mouth  to  signal 
to  him.  to  hush. 

"I  know,  I  know  all  that,  but  I  don't  want 
to  think  of  it." 

"You  don't  want  to  think  about  it!" 

"No,"  said  she. 

And  a  moment  after: 

"One  must  live.  ...  If  one  thinks 
about  it,  one  cannot  live  any  more.  For 
myself  I  want  to  live,  I  want  to  live.  If 
they  compel  me  to  do  that  in  order  to  live, 
shall  I  torment  myself  on  this  account  or  on 
that?  That's  no  business  of  mine;  it  isn't 
I  that  wants  it.  If  it  is  wrong  it  is  not  my 
fault,  not  my  own.  As  for  me,  what  I  want 
is  nothing  bad." 

"And  what  is  it  you  do  want?" 

"First  of  all  I  want  to  live." 

"You  love  life?" 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE,          49 

"Why,  of  course.     Am  I  wrong  in  that?" 

"Oh,  no!  It  is  so  jolly  that  you  do 
live.  .  .  ." 

"And  you,  you  don't  love  it  also?" 

"I  did  not,  up  to  the  time    .    .    ." 

"Up  to  the  time?" 

(This  question  did  not  call  for  an  answer. 
Both  of  them  knew  it.) 

Following  up  his  thought,  Pierre: 

"You  just  said  'first  of  all.'  ...  'I 
want  to  live,  first  of  all.'  .  .  .  And  what 
then?  What  else  do  you  wish?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Yes,  you  do  know    .    .    .f* 

"You  are  very  indiscreet." 

"Yes,  very." 

"It  embarrasses  me  to  tell  you    .    .    ." 

"Tell  me  in  my  ear.  No  one  will 
overhear." 

She  smiled: 

"I  would  like    .    .    .w    r(sKe  Hesitated). 

"I  would  like  just  a  little  bit  of  happi- 
ness .  .  ." 

(They  were  quite  close  the  one  to  the 
other.) 


50  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

She  went  on: 

"Is  that  too  much  to  ask?  .  .  .  They 
have  often  told  me  that  I'm  an  egotist;  and 
as  for  me,  I  sometimes  say  to  myself:  What 
has  one  a  right  to?  When  one  sees  so  many 
wretchednesses,  so  much  pain  about  one,  you 
hardly  dare  to  ask.  .  .  .  But  in  spite  of 
all  my  heart  does  insist  and  cries  out:  Yes, 
I  have  the  right,  I  have  the  right  to  a  very 
little  portion  of  happiness  .  .  .  Tell  me 
very  frankly,  is  that  being  an  egotist?  Do 
you  think  that  wrong?" 

He  was  overcome  by  an  infinite  pity. 
That  cry  of  the  heart,  that  poor  little  naive 
cry  stirred  him  down  to  his  soul.  Tears 
came  to  his  eyes.  Side  by  side  on  the  bench, 
leaning  one  against  the  other,  they  felt  the 
warmth  of  their  legs.  He  would  have  liked 
to  turn  toward  her  and  take  her  in  his  arms. 
He  did  not  dare  move  for  fear  of  not  re- 
maining in  control  of  his  emotion.  Im- 
movable, they  looked  straight  forward  at 
the  ground  before  their  feet.  Very  swiftly, 
in  a  low  ardent  voice,  almost  without  moving 
his  lips,  he  said: 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  51 

"Oh,  my  darling  little  body!  Oh,  my 
heart!  Would  I  could  hold  your  little  feet 
in  my  hands,  upon  my  mouth.  ...  I 
would  like  to  eat  you  all  ..." 

Without  budging  and  very  low  and  very 
quickly,  just  as  he  had  spoken,  she  replied 
full  of  trouble:  "Crazy!,  Foolish  boy! 
Silence!'  I  beg  of  you  .  .  ." 

A  stroller-by  of  a  certain  age  limped 
slowly  past  them.  They  felt  their  two  bodies 
melt  together  with  tenderness.  .  .  . 

Nobody  left  on  the  walk.  A  sparrow  with 
ruffled  feathers  was  dusting  itself  in  the 
sand.  The  fountain  shed  its  lucent  drop- 
lets. Timidly  their  faces  turned  one  toward 
the  other;  and  scarcely  had  their  eyes  met 
each  other,  when  like  the  rush  of  birds  their 
mouths  met,  frightened  and  closely  pressed — 
and  then  they  flew  apart.  Luce  sprang  up, 
departed.  He  also  had  risen.  She  said  to 
him:  "Stay  here." 

They  did  not  dare  to  look  at  one  another 
any  longer.  He  murmured : 

"Luce!  That  little  bit  .  .  .  that  little  bit 
of  happiness  .  .  .  say,  now  we  have  it !" 


THE  weather  caused  an  interruption  to 
the  lunches  by  the  fountain  of  the  sparrows. 
Fogs  came  to  obscure  the  February  sun.  But 
they  could  not  snuff  out  the  one  they  carried 
in  their  hearts.  Ah!  all  the  bad  weather 
you  could  wish  might  be  on  hand:  cold,  hot, 
rain,  wind,  snow  or  sun !  Everything  would 
be  well,  always.  And  even,  things  would  be 
better.  For  when  happiness  is  in  its  period 
of  growth  the  very  finest  of  all  the  days  is 
always  today. 

The  fog  offered  them  a  benevolent  pre- 
text not  to  separate  during  a  portion  of  the 
day.  Less  risk  that  way  of  being  ob- 
served. In  the  morning  he  went  to  wait 
for  her  at  the  arrival  of  the  train  and  he 
accompanied  her  in  her  walks  about  Paris. 
He  had  the  collar  of  his  overcoat  turned  up. 
She  wore  a  fur  toque,  her  boa  rolled  in  a 
chilly  way  up  to  her  chin,  her  little  veil 

52 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  53 

tightly  tied  on,  which  her  lips  pushed  out 
and  made  in  it  a  small  round  relief.  But 
the  best  veil  was  the  moist  network  of  the 
protective  mist.  The  mist  was  like  a  curtain 
of  ashes,  dense,  grayish,  with  phosphorescent 
spots.  One  could  not  see  farther  than  ten 
yards.  It  became  thicker  and  thicker  as  they, 
passed  down  the  old  streets  perpendicular  to 
the  Seine.  Friendly  fog,  in  which  a  dream 
stretches  itself  between  ice-cold  linen  and 
shudders  with  delight!  They  were  like  the 
almond  in  the  shell  of  the  nut,  like  a  flame 
enclosed  in  a  dark  lantern.  Pierre  held  the 
left  arm  of  Luce  closely  pressed  to  him; 
they  walked  with  the  same  step,  almost  of  the 
same  stature,  s'he  a  trifle  taller,  twittering  in 
a  half  voice,  their  figures  quite  close  together; 
he  would  have  liked  to  kiss  the  little  moist 
round  on  her  veil. 

She  was  going  to  the  shopman  who  sold 
"false  antiques" — who  had  ordered  them — 
to  dispose  of  her  "turnips^'  her  "little  beets" 
as  she  called  them.  They  were  never  in  a 
great  hurry  to  reach  the  place  and  without 
doing  so  on  purpose  (at  least  that  is  what 


£4!  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

they  insisted)  took  the  longest  way  about, 
putting  their  mistake  to  the  debit  of  the  fog. 
$V"hen  at  last,  nevertheless,  the  place  came  to 
meet  them  despite  all  the  efforts  made  to  get 
it  off  the  track,  Pierre  stayed  at  a  distance. 
She  entered  the  shop.  He  waited  at  the 
corner  of  the  street.  He  waited  a  long  time 
and  he  was  not  very  warm.  But  he  was  glad 
to  wait  and  not  to  be  warm  and  even  to  be 
bored,  because  it  was  all  for  her.  At  last  she 
came  out  again  and  quick,  quick  she  skipped 
up  to  him,  smiling,  tender,  in  great  disquiet 
lest  he  be  frozen.  He  saw  in  her  eyes  when 
she  had  succeeded  and  then  he  rejoiced  over 
it  as  if  it  were  he  who  had  made  the  money. 
But  most  often  she  came  back  to  him  empty 
handed;  it  was  necessary  to  return  to  the 
shop  two  or  three  days  in  succession  in  order 
to  obtain  her  pay.  Yery  happy  she,  if  they 
did  not  give  her  back  the  object  ordered 
accompanied  by  rebukes!  Today  for  in- 
stance they  had  made  a  great  fuss  on  account 
of  a  miniature  painted  from  the  photograph 
of  an  honest  fellow  deceased,  whom  she  had 
never  seen.  The  family  was  indignant 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  55 

because  she  had  not  given  him  the  exact 
colors  of  his  eyes  and  hair.  It  was  necessary 
to  do  it  all  over  again.  Since  she  was  dis- 
posed rather  to  look  at  the  comic  side  of  her 
misadventures,  she  laughed  courageously 
about  it.  But  Pierre  did  not  laugh.  He 
was  furious. 

"Idiots!     Triple  idiots!" 

When  Luce  showed  him  the  photographs 
which  she  had  to  copy  in  colors  he  thundered 
in  his  disdain  (Oh,  how  amused  she  was  at 
his  comical  fury!)  at  these  heads  of  imbe- 
ciles, frozen  in  solemn  smiles.  That  the 
dear  eyes  of  his  Luce  should  have  to  apply 
themselves  to  reproducing  and  her  hands  to 
tracing  the  pictures  of  these  mugs  seemed  to 
him  a  profanation.  No,  it  was  too  revolt- 
ing! Copies  from  the  museums  were  more 
wortK  while.  But  one  could  not  count  on 
them  any  more.  The  last  museums  had  shut 
their  doors  and  no  longer  interested  her 
clients.  It  was  no  longer  the  hour  for  Virgin 
Maries  and  angels,  only  for  the  rpoilus. 
Every  family  had  its'  own,  dead  or  alive, 
oftener  dead,  and  wanted  to  eternalize  his 


56  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

features.  The  wealthier  ones  wanted  colors: 
work  paid  for  well  enough,  but  beginning  to 
be  scarce;  it  was  needful  for  her  not  to  be 
capricious.  Lacking  which,  all  that  re- 
mained for  the  time  being  was  the  enlarging 
of  photographs  at  laughable  prices. 

The  clearest  point  in  all  of  this  was  that 
she  no  longer  had  any  reason  to  spend  her 
time  in  Paris:  no  more  copies  in  the  museum; 
all  that  was  needed  being,  to  go  to  the  shop 
to  collect  and  bring  back  the  orders  every  two 
or  three  days ;  the  work  itself  could  be  done 
at  home.  That  was  not  exactly  what  the  two 
children  liked.  They  continued  to  stroll 
about  the  streets,  unable  to  decide  on  taking 
up  the  way  to  the  station.  Since  they  felt 
weary  and  the  icy  fog  pierced  them  through, 
they  went  into  a  church;  and  there,  seated 
most  properly  in  the  corner  of  a  chapel,  they 
talked  in  low  voices  about  the  little  common- 
place affairs  of  their  life  while  they  looked  at 
the  stained-glass  windows.  From  time  to 
time  there  fell  a  silence;  and  their  souls,  de- 
livered from  mere  words  (it  was  not  the 
meaning  in  the  words  that  interested  them 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE    ,       57 

but  their  breath  of  life,  like  the  furtive  con- 
tacts between  quivering  antennae)  their  souls 
pursued  another  dialogue  more  solemn  and 
profound.  The  dreams  in  the  colored 
windows,  the  shadows  cast  by  the  piers,  the 
droning  of  the  hymns  mingled  with  their 
dream,  evoked  the  sorrowful  facts  of  life 
which  they  desired  to  forget  and  the  consol- 
ing homesickness  of  the  infinite.  Although 
it  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  a  yellowish  twi- 
light brimmed  the  nave  like  the  oil  of  a 
sacred  cruet.  From  on  high  and  from  a 
great  distance  came  strange  gleams,  the 
sombre  purple  of  a  window,  a  red  pool  on 
violet  ones,  indistinct  figures  encircled  by 
their  black  settings.  Against  the  high  wall 
of  night  the  blood-like  gleam  of  light  made 
a  wound.  .  .  « 

Abruptly  Luce  remarked: 
"Shall  you  have  to  be  taken?" 
He  understood  at  once  what  she  meant 
for  in  the  silence  his  spirit  too  had  pursued 
the  same  obscure  trail. 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "We  mustn't  talk  of  it." 
"Only  one  thing.     Tell  me  when?" 


5  »  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

He  told  her: 

"In  six  months." 

She  sighed. 

He  said: 

"tWe  mustn't  think  of  it  any  more.  What 
use  would  it  be?" 

She  said: 

"Yes,  what  use?" 

They  drew  long  breaths  in  order  to  push 
back  the  thought.  Then  courageously  (or 
should  one  say  to  the  contrary  "timorously"  ? 
Let  him  who  knows  decide  where  true  cour- 
age lies!)  they  both  compelled  themselves 
to  talk  of  something  else — of  the  stars  of 
the  candles,  trembling  in  a  reek,  of  the  organ 
playing  a  prelude.  Of  the  beadle  who  was 
passing.  Of  the  box  full  of  surprises  which 
her  handbag  was,  in  which  the  indiscreet 
fingers  of  Pierre  were  rummaging.  They  had 
a  very  passion  of  amusing  themselves  with 
nothings.  Neither  one  nor  the  other  of  these 
poor  little  creatures  so  much  as  considered 
the  shadow  of  an  idea  of  escaping  from 
that  destiny  which  must  separate  them.  To 
make  any  resistance  against  the  war,  to 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  39 

brave  the  current  of  a  nation :  as  well  to  lift 
up  the  church  which  covered  them  with  its 
shell!  LThe  only  recourse  was  to  forget,  to 
forget  up  to  the  last  second,  while  hoping  at 
bottom  that  this  last  second  would  never 
arrive.  Until  then,  to  be  happy. 

After  they  went  out,  while  chatting,  she 
pulled  him  by  the  arm  in  order  to  cast  a 
glance  at  a  shopfront,  which  they  had  just 
passed.  A  shoe  shop.  He  found  his  gaze 
caressing  tenderly  a  pair  of  fine  leather 
shoes,  tall  and  laced  up. 

"Pretty,  eh?"  said  he. 

She  said: 

"A  love!" 

He  laughed  at  the  expression  and  she 
laughed  also. 

"Wouldn't  they  be  too  big?" 

"No,  just  a  fit." 

"Well,  then,  suppose  one  bought  them?" 

She  pressed  his  arm  and  pulled  him  on  so 
as  to  tear  him  away  from  the  sight. 

"One  has  to  belong  to  the  wealthy" 
(humming  the  air  of  Dansons  la  capucine. 
.  .  .)  "But  they're  not  for  us.'? 


60  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

"Why  not?  Cinderella  put  the  slipper  on 
all  right!" 

"At  that  time  there  were  fairies  still." 

"In  the  present  time  there  are  lovers  still." 

She  sang: 

"Non,  non,  nenni,  mon  petit  ami!" 

"Why  so,  since  we  are  friends?" 

"Just  for  that  reason." 

"For  that?" 

"Yes,  because  one  cannot  accept  things 
from  a  friend." 

"Then  perhaps — from  an  enemy?" 

"Rather  from  a  stranger;  my  shopman, 
for  instance,  if  he  wanted  to  advance  me  a 
payment,  the  robber!" 

"But,  Luce,  I  certainly  have  the  right  to 
order  from  you  a  painting,  if  I  wish?" 

She  stopped,  to  burst  out  laughing. 

"You,  a  painting  by  me?  My  poor 
friend,  what  could  you  do  with  it?  You 
have  gained  a  good  deal  of  merit  already, 
just  for  having  looked  at  them.  I  know  well 
enough  that  they  are  croutes.  They  would 
stick  in  your  throat." 

"Not  at  all!      Some  of  them  are  very 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  61 

cunning.      And   besides,    if  they   suit   my 

taste?" 

"It's  certainly  changed  since  yesterday." 
"Isn't  it  allowable  to  change  one's  taste?" 
"No,  not  when  one's  a  friend." 
"Luce,  do  my  portrait!" 
"Well,  well,  now;  his  portrait !" 
"JVhy,  it's  very  serious.    I'm  as  good  as 

those  idiots    .    .    ." 

She  squeezed  his  arm  in  an  unthinking 

burst: 

"Darling!" 

"What  was  tKat  you  said?" 

"I  didn't  say  anything." 

"I  heard  you  all  right." 

"Well  then,  keep  it  for  yourself! " 

"No,  I  shan't  keep  it.     I'll  give  it  bacK 

to  you  double.     .    v    .    Darling!     .     .     . 

Darling !    You'll  do  my  portrait,  won't  you  ?, 

It's  settled?" 
"Have  you  a  photo?" 
"No,  I  have  not." 
"Then  what  do  you  expect?    I  can't  paint 

you  in  the  street,  I  suppose," 


6a  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

"You  told  me  that  at  home  you  were 
alone  almost  every  day." 

"Yes,  the  days  mama  works  at  the  fac- 
tory. .  .  .  But  I  don't  dare  .  .  ." 

"You  are  afraid,  then,  that  we  shall  be 
seen?" 

"No,  that's  not  the  reason.  We  have  no 
neighbors." 

"Well,  then,  what  is  it  you're  afraid  of?" 

She  did  not  reply. 

They  were  come  to  the  square  before  the 
tramway  station.  Although  all  about  them 
•were  people  who  were  waiting,  they  were 
hardly  to  be  seen,  the  fog  continued  to  isolate 
the  little  couple.  She  evaded  his  eyes.  He 
took  her  two  hands  and  said  tenderly: 

"My  darling,  don't  be  afraid    .    .    ." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  they  gazed  at  each 
other.  Their  eyes  were  so  loyal!; 

"I  trust  you,"  said  she. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  She  felt  that  she  was 
sacred  to  him. 

They  let  go  hands.  The  tram  was  aHout 
to  start.  Pierre's  gaze  questioned  Luce. 

"What  day?"  he  demanded. 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  6$ 

"Thursday,"  she  replied.  "Come  about 
two." 

At  the  moment  of  parting  she  regained  her 
roguish  smile;  she  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"And  you  must  bring  your  photo  just  the 
same.  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  paint  with- 
out the  photo.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  I  know  you 
have  some,  you  naughty  little  humbug." 


OUT  beyond  the  Malatoff.  Streets  like 
broken  teeth  separated  by  vague  regions 
losing  themselves  in  a  dubious  kind  of 
country-side  where  among  boarded  enclo- 
sures blossom  the  cabins  of  ragpickers.  The 
gray  dull  sky  is  lying  low  over  the  colorless 
ground  whose  thin  edges  smoke  with  the  fog. 
The  air  is  chill.  The  house  easy  to  find: 
there  are  only  three  of  them  on  one  side  of 
the  road.  Jhe  last  of  the  three;  it  has  no 
neighbor  across  the  street.  It  has  but  one 
story  with  a  little  courtyard  which  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  picket  fence;  two  or  three 
starveling  trees,  a  square  patch  of  kitchen 
garden  under  the  snow. 

Pierre  has  made  no  noise  on  entering;  the 
snow  deadens  his  steps.  But  the  curtains 
of  the  ground  floor  are  in  motion;  and  when 
he  reaches  the  door,  the  door  opens  and  Luce 
is  on  the  threshold.  In  the  half  light  of  the 

64 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  65 

hall  they  say  good  day  in  a  choking  voice, 
and  she  ushers  him  into  the  first  apartment 
which  serves  as  dining-room.  There  it  is 
that  she  works:  her  easel  is  installed  near 
the  window.  At  first  they  do  not  know  what 
to  say  to  one  another:  both  have  thought 
over  this  visit  altogether  too  much  before- 
hand; none  of  the  speeches  they  had  pre- 
pared is  able  to  come  forth;  and  they  talk 
in  a  halfvoice,  although  there  is  nobody  else 
in  the  house — and  it's  just  for  that  reason. 
They  stay  seated  at  some  distance  from  each 
other  with  their  arms  rigid;  and  he  has  not 
even  thrown  back  the  collar  of  his  cloak. 
They  chat  about  the  cold  weather  and  the 
hours  of  the  tramcars.  They  are  unhappy 
to  feel  themselves  so  silly. 

At  last  she  makes  an  effort  and  asks  if  he 
has  brought  the  photographs,  and  scarcely 
has  he  taken  them  from  his  pocket  when  both 
pluck  up  a  spirit.  These  pictures  are  the 
intermediaries  over  whose  heads  the  chat 
revives;  for  now  the  two  are  not  entirely 
alone;  there  are  eyes  that  look  at  you  and 
they  are  not  embarrassing.  Pierre  has  had 


66  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

the  clever  idea  (there  was  really  no  roguish- 
ness  in  it)  to  bring  all  his  photographs,  from 
the  age  of  three;  there  was  one  that  showed 
him  in  a  little  skirt.  Luce  laughed  with 
pleasure;  she  spoke  to  the  photo  in  comical 
baby  talk.  Can  there  be  anything  more 
delightful  to  a  woman  than  to  see  the  picture 
of  the  person  she  loves  when  he  was  quite 
small?  She  cradles,  she  rocks  him  in  her 
thoughts,  she  gives  him  the  breast;  and  she 
is  even  not  so  far  from  the  dream  that  she 
has  given  him  birth.  And  besides  (nor  does 
she  dupe  herself  at  all)  it  forms  a  convenient 
pretext  to  say  to  the  infant  what  she  cannot 
force  herself  to  say  to  the  grown-up. — When 
he  asks  which  one  of  the  photographs  she 
prefers,  she  says  without  hesitating: 
"The  dear  little  codger  .  .  ." 
How  serious  he  looks,  already!  Almost 
more  serious  than  today.  Certainly  if  Luce 
dared  to  look  (and  just  here  she  does  dare) 
in  order  to  make  comparisons  with  the 
Pierre  of  today,  she  would  see  in  his  eyes 
an  expression  of  joy  and  infantile  gayety 
that  does  not  appear  in  the  infant:  for  the 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  67 

eyes  of  this  infant,  this  little  bourgeois 
under  a  bell  glass,  are  birds  in  a  cage  that 
lack  sunlight;  and  the  sunlight  has  come, 
hasn't  it,  Luce?  .  .  . 

In  his  turn  he  asks  to  see  photos  of  Luce. 
She  exhibits  a  little  girl  of  six  with  a  big 
plait  who  is  squeezing  a  little  dog  in  her 
arms;  and  as  she  sees  it  again  she  thinks 
mischievously  that  in  that  period  she  loved  no 
less  fervently  nor  very  differently;  whatever 
heart  she  possessed  she  gave  it  even  then  to 
her  dog;  it  was  Pierre  already,  while  wait- 
ing till  he  arrived.  Also  she  showed  a  young 
miss  of  thirteen  or  fourteen  who  twisted  her 
neck  with  a  coquettish  and  a  somewhat  pre- 
tentious air;  luckily  there  was  always  there 
at  the  corners  of  the  mouth  that  roguish  little 
smile  which  appeared  to  say: 

"You  know,  I'm  just  amusing  myself;  I 
don't  take  myself  seriously." 

Now  they  had  completely  forgotten  their 
former  embarrassment. 

She  set  herself  to  sketching-in  the  portrait. 
Since  he  must  not  budge  one  bit  any  more, 
nor  talk  except  with  the  tips  of  his  lips,  she  it 


68  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

was  who  made  almost  all  the  conversation, 
all  by  herself.  Instinct  told  her  that  silence 
was  dangerous.  And  as  it  happens  with  sin- 
cere persons  who  talk  at  some  length,  she 
came  quickly  to  the  point  of  confiding  to 
him  the  intimate  affairs  of  her  life  and  those 
of  her  family  which  she  did  not  have  the 
slightest  intention  of  recounting.  She  heard 
herself  speak  with  astonishment;  but  there 
was  no  way  of  returning  to  solid  ground; 
the  very  silence  of  Pierre  was  like  a  declivity 
down  which  the  stream  glided.  .  .  . 

She  recited  the  facts  of  her  infant  life  in 
the  provinces.  She  came  from  Touraine. 
Her  mother  belonging  to  a  well-to-do  family 
of  the  solid  bourgeoisie  became  infatuated 
with  a  tutor,  the  son  of  a  farmer.  The 
bourgeois  family  opposed  the  marriage;  but 
the  two  lovers  were  obstinate;  the  young 
girl  had  waited  until  she  was  of  age  in  order 
to  send  out  the  legal  summons  to  her  family. 
After  the  marriage  her  people  would  not 
recognize  her.  The  young  couple  lived 
through  years  of  affection  and  hard  fare. 
The  husband  wore  himself  out  at  his  task 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  69 

and  sickness  arrived.  The  wife  accepted 
this  further  burden  courageously;  she 
worked  for  two.  Her  parents,  obstinately 
cherishing  their  wounded  pride,  refused  to 
do  anything  to  come  to  his  assistance.  The 
sick  man  died  a  few  months  before  the  out- 
break of  the  war.  And  the  two  women  did 
not  try  to  renew  connection  with  the  mother's 
family.  The  latter  would  have  welcomed 
the  young  girl  if  she  had  made  any  ad- 
vances ;  she  would  have  been  received  like  a 
mea  culpa  condoning  the  action  of  her 
mother.  But  the  family  might  wait!. 
Rather  eat  stones  for  breakfast! 

Pierre  was  amazed  at  the  hard  hearted- 
ness  of  these  bourgeois  parents.  Luce  did 
not  find  it  extraordinary. 

"Don't  you  believe  there  are  a  great  many 
people  like  that?  Not  wicked.  No,  I  am 
sure  that  my  grandparents  are  not,  and  even 
believe  that  it  pained  them  not  to  say  to  us : 
'Come  back!'  But  their  self-respect  had 
been  mortified  too  much.  And  self-love 
among  these  people,  there's  nothing  else  that 
is  so  great.  It  is  stronger  than  all  the  rest. 


70  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

When  one  has  done  them  wrong  it  is  not 
merely  the  wrong  that  one  has  done  them; 
there  is  the  Wrong;  the  others  are  wrong 
and  they  themselves  are  right.  And  so, 
without  being  cruel  (no,  really,  they  are 
not)  they  would  let  you  die  near  them  at  a 
slow  fire  rather  than  concede  that  perhaps 
after  all  they  were  not  right.  Oh,  they  are 
not  the  only  ones!  One  meets  with  many 
others!  .  .  .  Say,  am  I  mistaken?  Aren't 
they  just  like  that?" 

Pierre  pondered.  He  was  excited.  For 
he  was  thinking: 

"Why,  yes.  That  is  the  way  they 
are.  .  .  ." 

Through  the  eyes  of  the  little  girl  he  saw 
abruptly  the  penury  of  heart,  the  desert- 
like  aridity  of  this  bourgeois  class  of  which 
he  formed  a  part.  Dry  and  wornout  earth 
which  little  by  little  has  imbibed  all  the 
juices  of  life  and  does  not  renew  them  any; 
more,  just  like  those  lands  in  Asia  where 
the  fecundating  rivers,  drop  by  drop,  have 
disappeared  under  the  vitreous  sand.  Even 
those  whom  they  believe  they  love  are  loved 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  71 

in  a  proprietary  way;  they  sacrifice  them 
to  their  egotism,  to  their  buttressed  pride,  to 
their  narrow  and  headstrong  intelligence. 
Pierre  took  a  sorrowful  review  of  his  parents 
and  himself.  He  was  silent.  The  panes  of 
the  apartment  vibrated  under  the  shock  of 
a  distant  cannonade.  And  Pierre,  who  was 
thinking  of  those  who  were  dying,  said  with 
bitterness : 

"And  that,  too,  is  their  work." 

Yes,  the  hoarse  barking  of  these  cannon 
away  off  there,  the  universal  war,  the  grand 
catastrophe — the  dryness  of  heart  and  the 
inhumanity  of  that  braggart  and  limited 
bourgeoisie  had  a  large  part  in  the  responsi- 
bility for  all  that.  And  now  (which  was 
only  just)  the  unchained  monster  would 
never  stop  until  it  had  devoured  them. 

And  Luce  said: 

"That  is  true." 

For  without  knowing  that  she  Hid  so  sKe 
followed  the  thought  of  Pierre.  He  started 
at  the  echo: 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  said  he,  "what  has  come 


72  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

about  is  just.  This  world  was  too  old;  it 
ought  to,  it  must  die." 

And  Luce,  bowing  her  head,  sorrowful  and 
resigned,  said  once  more: 

"Yes." 

Solemn  faces  of  children  bent  beneath 
Destiny,  whose  youthful  brows  touched  by 
the  wing  of  care  bore  within  them  such  dis- 
tressful ponderings !  .  .  . ; 

Darkness  increased  in  the  room.  It  was 
not  very  warm  in  there.  Her  hands  being 
icy,  Luce  stopped  her  work,  which  Pierre  was 
not  allowed  to  see.  They  went  to  the  window 
and  contemplated  the  evening  shadows 
across  mournful  fields  and  wooded  hills. 
The  violet  forests  formed  a  half  circle 
against  a  greenish  sky  powdered  with  dust 
of  a  pale  gold.  A  bit  of  the  soul  of  Puvis  de 
Chavannes  floated  there.  A  simple  phrase 
of  Luce  made  it  evident  that  she  understood 
how  to  read  that  subtle  harmony.  He  was 
almost  astonished.  She  was  not  miffed  at 
that,  and  said  that  one  might  easily  feel  a; 
thing  that  one  would  be  incapable  of  express- 
ing. tThough  she  painted  very  badly,  it  was 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  73 

not  altogether  her  fault.  Through  an  eco- 
nomical turn,  perhaps  ill-advised,  she  had 
not  finished  her  course  at  the  Arts  Decoratifs. 
Besides,  poverty  alone  had  made  her  turn  to 
painting.  ^Vhat  use  in  painting  without  a 
purpose?  And  did  not  Pierre  think  that 
almost  all  those  who  produce  art  do  it  with- 
out actual  necessity,  through  vanity,  in  order 
to  occupy  their  time,  or  else  because  at  first 
they  think  they  need  it  and  later  on  will  not 
confess  they  were  mistaken?  One  should 
not  be  an  artist  save  when  one  absolutely 
cannot  keep  to  oneself  the  feeling  one  has — 
only  when  one  has  too  much  feeling.  But 
Luce  said  she  possessed  just  enough  for  one. 
She  went  on: 

"No,  for  two." 

(Because  he  made  a  face  at  her.) 

The  lovely  golden  tints  in  the  sky  began 
to  turn  to  brown.  The  deserted  plain  put 
on  a  disconsolate  mask.  Pierre  asked  Luce 
if  she  was  not  afraid  in  that  solitude. 

"No." 

"When  you  get  home  late?" 

"There  is  no  danger.    .The  Apaches  don't 


74  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

come  here.  They  have  their  own  customs. 
They  are  bourgeois,  too.  Besides,  we  have 
over  there  an  old  ragpicker,  and  his  dog. 
And  besides,  I  have  no  fear.  Oh,  I'm  not 
boasting  about  myself!  I  have  no  merit  at 
all  in  it.  I  am  not  courageous  naturally. 
Only,  I  have  not  as  yet  had  any  occasion 
to  meet  with  real  fear.  The  day  I  do  see  it, 
perhaps  I  shall  be  more  of  a  poltroon  than 
the  next  one.  Does  one  ever  know  what  one 
really  is?" 

"Well,  I  for  my  part  know  what  you  are," 
quoth  Pierre. 

"Ah,  that  is  much  easier.  I  myself  like- 
wise, I  know  ...  as  to  you!  One 
always  knows  better  about  another." 

The  moist  chill  of  evening  entered  the 
room  through  the  closed  windows.  Pierre 
felt  a  little  shudder.  Luce,  who  perceived 
it  at  once  on  his  necK,  ran  to  make  him  a 
cup  of  chocolate,  which  she  heated  on  her 
spirit-lamp.  Jhey  took  a  bit  of  food.  Luce 
had  thrown  her  shawl  maternally  over 
Pierre's  shoulders;  and  he  let  her  do  it  like 
a  cat  enjoying  the  warmth  of  the  stuff. 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  75, 

Once  more  the  current  of  their  thoughts 
brought  them  back  to  the  family  history 
which  Luce  had  interrupted. 

Pierre  continued : 

"Both  of  you  all  alone,  so  entirely  alone, 
you  and  your  mother:  you  must  be  deeply 
attached  to  one  another." 

"Yes,"  said  Luce.  "LWe  were  very  much 
attached." 

"Were?"  repeated  Pierre. 

"Oh!"  said  Luce,  "we  always  love  each 
other;"  still  somewhat  embarrassed  by  the 
word  which  had  escaped  her  without  think- 
ing. (Why  must  she  always  tell  him  more 
than  she  meant  to?  And  nevertheless  he  did 
not  ask,  he  dared  not  ask  her.  But  she  saw 
that  his  heart  was  putting  the  question.  And 
it's  so  nice  to  confide  in  someone  when  one 
has  never  had  the  chance!  The  silence  of 
the  house,  the  half-shade  of  the  room  encour- 
aged her  to  confess.)  She  observed: 

"There's  no  saying  or  knowing  what  has 
been  going  on  for  the  last  four  years.  The 
whole  world  is  changed." 


76  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

"You  mean  to  say  that  your  mother,  or 
that  you  have  changed?" 

"The  whole  world,"  repeated  she. 

"In  what  respect?" 

"That's  hard  to  define.  One  feels  every- 
where among  people  who  know  each  other, 
even  in  the  family,  that  the  relations  are  not 
the  same.  One  is  never  sure  of  anything 
any  more;  in  the  morning  one  says  to  one- 
self: What  is  it  I  am  going  to  experience 
this  night?  Shall  I  recognize  it?  One  is 
as  if  on  a  plank  in  the  water  just  about  to 
upset." 

"What  is  it  that's  happened?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Luce,  "I  can't 
explain  it.  But  it  has  come  since  the  war. 
There  is  something  in  the  air.  Everybody  is 
troubled.  In  families  one  sees  people  who 
were  not  capable  of  doing  without  one 
another  marching  off  today,  each  one  in  his 
own  direction.  And  as  if  intoxicated  each 
one  runs  along  with  nose  on  the  trail." 

"Where  do  they  go?" 

"I  don't  know.  And  I  believe  they  don't 
either.  Either  pure  chance  or  some  desire 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  77 

spurs  them.  Women  take  lovers.  Men  for- 
get their  wives.  And  kindly  people,  too, 
who  generally  appear  so  calm  and  so  orderly ! 
Everywhere  we  hear  of  households  broken 
up.  It's  the  same  between  parents  and  chil- 
dren. My  mother  .  .  ." 

She  stopped,  then  ran  on: 

"My  mother  lives  her  own  life." 

She  stopped  again: 

"Oh,  it's  perfectly  natural!  She  is  still 
young,  and  poor  mama  has  not  had  much 
happiness;  she  has  not  poured  out  her  sum 
of  affection.  She  has  a  right  to  want  to 
make  her  life  over  again." 

Pierre  inquired: 

"She  wants  to  marry  again?" 

Luce  shook  her  head.  One  could  hardly 
know  very  well.  .  .  .  Pierre  dared  not 
insist. 

"She  loves  me  well,  still.  But  it's  not  the 
way  it  used  to  be.  She  is  able  to  do  with- 
out me  at  present.  .  .  .  Poor  mama! 
She  would  be  so  sorry  if  she  knew  that  her 
love  for  me  is  no  longer  in  her  heart  as  the 
first  of  all !  She  would  never  confess  that, 


7»  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

never.    .    .    .    O,  how  queer  it  is,  this  life ! " 

She  wore  a  sweet  smile,  sorrowful  and 
roguish.  Upon  her  hands  placed  on  the 
table  Pierre  put  his  hands  tenderly,  and  sat 
without  motion. 

"We  are  poor  creatures,"  he  muttered. 

Luce  continued  in  a  moment: 

"We  two,  how  tranquil  we  are!  .  .  . 
The  others  have  the  fever.  The  war.  The 
factories.  People  are  in  a  hurry.  They 
hustle.  Jo  work  hard,  to  live,  to  enjoy  them- 
selves .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  said  Pierre,  "the  time  is  short/* 

"All  the  more  reason  not  to  run!"  said 
Luce.  "One  gets  too  soon  to  the  end.  Let 
us  walk  slowly." 

"But  it's  time  that  hurries  along.  Hold 
on  to  it  well." 

"I'm  holding  onto  it;  I'm  holding,"  said 
Luce,  grasping  his  hand. 

Thus  back  and  forward,  tenderly,  gravely, 
they  talked  like  a  pair  of  good  old  friends. 
But  they  took  good  care  that  the  table  should 
stay  between  them. 

And  behold,  they  perceived  that  the  night 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE     ,       79 

had  filled  the  room.  Pierre  rose  hurriedly. 
Luce  did  nothing  to  retain  him.  The  short 
hour  had  passed.  They  were  afraid  of  the 
hour  that  might  come.  They  said  au  revolr 
to  each  other  with  the  same  constraint,  the 
same  low  and  choked  voice  as  when  he  came 
in.  On  the  threshold  their  hands  scarcely 
dared  to  press  each  other. 

But  when  the  door  was  shut,  just  as  he 
was  about  to  leave  the  garden,  as  he  turned 
his  head  toward  the  window  of  the  ground 
floor,  he  saw  in  the  last  gleam  of  the  copper- 
colored  twilight,  on  the  pane,  the  outline  of 
Luce,  who  was  following  his  departure  into 
the  uncertain  depths  of  the  gleam-filled 
obscurity  with  a  face  full  of  passion.  And 
turning  back  to  the  window,  he  pressed  his 
lips  against  the  closed  pane.  Their  lips 
kissed  through  the  wall  of  glass.  Then 
Luce  moved  back  into  the  shadows  of  the 
room  and  the  curtain  fell. 


FOR  the  past  fortnight  they  had  been  una- 
ware of  anything  that  was  going  on  in  the 
world.  In  Paris  people  might  make  arrests 
and  issue  condemnations  as  hard  as  they 
could.  Germany  might  make  treaties  and 
tear  up  those  she  had  signed.  Governments 
might  lie,  the  press  denounce  and  armies  kill. 
They  did  not  read  the  papers.  They  knew 
there  was  the  war  somewhere  all  about  them, 
just  as  there  is  typhus  or  else  influenza ;  but 
that  did  not  touch  them;  they  did  not  want 
to  think  about  it. 

The  war  recalled  itself  to  them  that  night. 
They  had  already  gone  to  bed  (they  spent 
their  hearts  so  freely  in  those  days  that  when 
evening  came  they  were  worn  out).  They 
heard  the  alarm  signals,  each  in  his  or  her 
respective  quarter,  and  declined  to  get  up. 
They  hid  their  heads  in  their  beds  under  the 

bedclothes  as  a  child  will  during  a  thunder- 
so 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  81 

storm — not  at  all  from  fear  (they  were  posi- 
tive that  nothing  could  happen  to  them)  but 
in  order  to  dream.  Listening  to  the  air 
rumbling  in  the  night,  Luce  thought: 

"It  would  be  delightful  to  listen  to  the 
storm  as  it  passes,  in  his  arms." 

Pierre  stopped  his  ears.  Let  nothing 
trouble  his  thoughts!  He  insisted  on  pick- 
ing out  on  the  piano  of  memory  the  song  of 
the  day  passed,  the  melodious  thread  of 
the  hours,  from  the  first  minute  that  he 
entered  Luce's  house,  the  slightest  inflections 
of  her  voice  and  her  gestures,  the  successive 
images  which  his  eyes  had  hastily  snapped 
up — a  shadow  under  the  eyelids,  a  wave  of 
emotion  that  passed  beneath  the  skin  like  a 
shiver  across  the  water,  a  smile  just  brush- 
ing against  the  lips  like  a  sun  ray,  and  his 
palm  pressed  on,  nestled  against  the  nude 
softness  of  the  two  extended  hands — these 
precious  fragments  that  endeavored  to  re- 
unite the  magic  fantasy  of  love  in  a  single 
close  embrace.  He  would  not  permit  that 
noises  from  without  should  enter  there.  The 
outside  was  for  him  a  tiresome  visitor.  The 


8 a  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

war?  Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  Has  it  come? 
Let  it  wait.  .  .  .  And  the  war  did  wait 
at  the  door,  patiently.  War  knew  that  it 
would  have  its  turn.  He  knew  that  also; 
that  is  why  he  had  no  shame  in  his  egotism. 
The  rising  billow  of  death  was  about  to  seize 
him.  So  he  owed  death  nothing  in  advance. 
Nothing.  Let  death  come  back  again  at  the 
date  of  the  contract!  Up  to  that  day  let 
death  be  silent !,  Ah,  up  to  then  at  least  he 
did  not  want  to  lose  anything  of  this  mar- 
velous time;  each  second  was  a  golden  grain 
and  he  the  miser  who  paws  over  his  treasure. 
It's  mine,  it's  my  property.  Don't  you  dare 
touch  my  peace,  my  love!  It's  my  own  up 
to  the  hour.  .  .  .  And  when  will  the  hour 
come?  Perhaps  it  will  not  come  at  all! 
A  miracle  ?  Why  not  ?  .  >  » 

Meantime  the  stream  of  hours  and  days 
kept  on  flowing.  At  each  new  bend  of  the 
channel  the  roaring  of  the  rapids  drew  nearer. 
Stretched  out  in  their  barque  Pierre  and 
Luce  listened  and  heard.  But  they  had  no 
more  fear.  Even  that  enormous  voice  like 
the  bass  notes  of  an  organ  cradled  their 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  83 

amorous  dream.  \Vhen  the  gulf  should  be 
there  they  would  close  their  eyes,  press  closer 
together  and  all  would  be  over  in  one  blow. 
The  gulf  spared  them  the  trouble  of  thinking 
about  the  life  that  was  to  be,  that  might  pos- 
sibly be,  afterward,  about  the  future  without 
an  issue.  For  Luce  foresaw  the  obstacles 
that  Pierre  would  have  to  encounter  if  he 
wished  to  marry  her;  and  Pierre  less  clearly 
(he  had  less  taste  for  clearness)  feared  them 
also.  Let  us  not  look  so  far  ahead!  Life 
beyond  the  gulf  was  like  that  "other  life" 
they  talked  about  in  church.  They  tell  you 
that  we  shall  find  each  other  again;  but 
they  are  not  so  very  sure.  One  sole  thing 
is  sure:  the  present.  Our  own  present. 
Let's  pour  into  it  without  any  taking  of  stock 
the  whole  of  our  part  in  eternity! 

Even  less  than  Pierre  did  Luce  inform 
herself  about  the  news.  The  war  did  not 
interest  her  in  the  least.  It  was  only  one 
misery  more  amongst  all  the  various  mis- 
eries which  form  the  web  and  woof  of  social 
existence.  Those  who  can  be  astonished 
about  it  are  those  only  who  stand  sheltered 


84  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

from  naked  realties.  And  the  little  girl 
with  her  precocious  experience  who  under- 
stood the  struggle  for  one's  daily  bread — 
panem  quotidianum  .  .  .  (God  does  not 
grant  it  for  nothing! ) — revealed  to  her  bour- 
geois friend  the  murderous  war  which,  for 
poor  folks  and  particularly  for  women, 
reigns  cunningly  deep  and  without  a  truce 
below  the  lie  of  peace.  She  did  not  talk  too 
much  about  it,  however,  for  fear  of  depress- 
ing him :  on  seeing  the  excitement  into  which 
her  accounts  threw  him,  she  had  an  affection- 
ate feeling  of  her  own  superiority.  Like  most 
women  she  did  not  entertain  with  regard  to 
certain  ugly  facts  of  life  the  physical  and 
moral  disgust  which  upset  the  young  fellow. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  rebel  in  her.  In 
still  worse  circumstances  she  would  have 
been  able  to  accept  repugnant  tasks  without 
repugnance  and  quit  them  quite  calm  and 
natty,  without  a  stain.  Today  she  could  not 
do  that  any  more,  for  since  she  had  come  to 
know  Pierre  her  love  had  caused  her  to  be 
filled  with  the  tastes  and  distastes  of  her 
friend;  but  that  was  not  her  fundamental 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  85 

nature.  Calm  and  smiling  by  reason  of  her 
race,  not  pessimistic  at  all.  Melancholy,  and 
the  grand  detached  airs  of  life  were  not  her 
business.  Life  is  as  it  is.  Let  us  take  it 
as  it  is!"  It  might  have  been  worse!  The 
hazards  of  an  existence  which  Luce  had 
always  known  to  be  precarious,  on  the  look- 
out for  expedients — and  particularly  since 
the  war— had  taught  her  to  be  careless  of  the 
morrow.  Add  to  this  that  every  preoccu- 
pation concerning  the  beyond  was  a  stranger 
to  this  free  little  French  girl.  Life  was 
enough  for  her.  Luce  found  life  delightful, 
but  it  all  hangs  by  a  thread  and  it  takes  so 
little  to  make  the  thread  break  that  really 
it  is  not  worth  the  trouble  to  torment  one- 
self about  what  may  turn  up  tomorrow. 
Eyes  of  mine,  drink  in  the  daylight  that 
bathes  you  as  you  piss!  As  to  what  may 
come  after,  O,  my  heart,  abandon  yourself 
in  confidence  to  the  stream!  .  .  .  And 
since  anyhow  we  can  not  do  otherwise!  .  .  . 
And  now  that  we  love  each  other,  isn't  it 
just  delicious?  Luce  well  knew  that  it  could 


80  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

not  be  for  long.     But  neither  her  life  nor  she 
herself,  either,  would  be  for  long.     .     .     . 

She  did  not  resemble  much  that  little 
fellow  who  loved  her  and  whom  she  loved, 
tender,  ardent  and  nervous,  happy  and  mis- 
erable, who  always  enjoyed  and  suffered  to 
excess,  who  gave  himself,  who  flew  into  a 
rage,  always  with  passion,  and  who  was 
dear  to  her  just  because  he  resembled  her 
hardly  at  all.  But  both  of  them  were  in 
accord  as  to  a  mute  resolve  not  to  look  into 
the  future:  the  girl  through  the  carelessness 
of  the  resigned  rivulet  that  sings  on  its  way 
— the  other  through  that  exalted  negation 
which  plunges  into  the  gulf  of  the  present 
and  never  desires  to  emerge  again. 


THE  big  brother  had  come  back  again  on 
furlough  for  a  few  days.  During  the  first 
evening  at  home  he  perceived  that  there  was 
something  changed  in  the  family  atmos- 
phere. What?  He  could  not  tell;  but  he 
was  vexed.  The  mind  possesses  antennae 
which  perceive  at  a  distance  before  con- 
sciousness is  able  to  touch  and  consider  the 
object.  And  the  finest  of  all  antennae  are 
those  of  vanity.  Philip's  agitated  them- 
selves, searched  about  and  were  surprised; 
they  missed  something.  .  .  «  Did  he  not 
have  his  circle  of  affection  which  rendered 
unto  him  the  customary  homage — the  atten- 
tive audience  to  which  in  miserly  fashion 
he  doled  out  his  stories — his  parents  who 
brooded  him  under  their  touched  admira- 
tion— the  young  brother?  .  .  .  Stop 
there!  It  was  he,  exactly  tie  who  was 
missing  to  the  appeal. 

87 


88i  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

He  was  present  of  course  but  he  did  not 
exert  himself  about  his  big  brother;  he  did 
not  beg  for  confidences  as  was  his  wont, 
which  the  other  used  to  take  pleasure  in 
denying.  Pitiful  vanity!  Philip,  who  on 
former  occasions  affected  in  regard  of  the 
ardent  questions  of  his  younger  brother  a 
sort  of  protective  and  bantering  lacka- 
daisicalness,  was  hurt  that  he  did  not  put 
them  this  time.  It  was  he  who  tried  to  pro- 
voke them :  he  became  more  loquacious  and 
he  looked  at  Pierre  as  if  he  wished  him  to 
feel  that  his  talk  was  meant  for  him.  At 
another  time  Pierre  would  have  thrilled  with 
joy  and  caught  on  the  fly  the  handkerchief 
that  was  tossed  him.  But  he  quietly  per- 
mitted Philip  to  pick  it  up  for  himself  if 
he  had  any  desire  to  do  so.  Philip,  feeling 
piqued,  tried  irony.  Instead  of  being 
troubled,  Pierre  answered  with  composure 
in  the  same  detached  tone.  Philip  wanted 
to  discuss,  became  agitated,  harangued. 
After  a  few  minutes  he  found  that  he  was 
haranguing  all  by  himself.  Pierre  looked 
on  at  his  efforts  wearing  an  air  of  saying: 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  89 

"Go  ahead,  my  dear  boy!  If  that  is  any 
pleasure  to  you!  Continue!  I'm  listen- 
ing. .  .  ." 

That  insolent  little  smile!  .  .  .  Their 
roles  were  reversed. 

Philip  stopped  talking,  much  mortified, 
and  observed  his  young  brother  more 
attentively,  who,  however,  did  not  occupy 
himself  further  with  him.  How  he  had 
changed!  The  parents,  who  saw  him  every 
day,  had  not  noticed  anything;  but  the 
penetrating  and  moreover  jealous  eyes  of 
Philip  did  not  find  any  more  the  well  known 
expression  after  several  months  of  absence. 
Pierre  had  a  happy,  languid,  thoughtless, 
torpid  air,  indifferent  as  to  persons,  inatten- 
tive to  what  is  about  them,  floating  in  an 
atmosphere  of  voluptuous  dream,  like  a 
young  girl.  And  Philip  felt  that  he  counted 
for  nothing  in  the  little  brother's  thoughts. 

Since  he  was  no  less  expert  in  analyzing 
himself  than  in  observing  others,  he  was 
quick  to  recover  consciousness  of  his  own 
vexation  and  laugh  at  it.  Vanity  thrust 
aside,  he  interested  himself  in  Pierre  and 


90  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

searched  for  the  secret  of  his  metamorphosis. 
He  would  have  liked  well  to  have  solicited 
his  confidence,  but  that  was  a  business  to 
which  he  was  not  habituated,  and  besides, 
little  brother  did  not  seem  to  have  any  need 
of  confiding;  with  a  careless  and  chaffing 
unconstraint  he  looked  on  while  Philip 
attempted  awkwardly  to  spread  the  net;  and 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  smiling,  his 
thoughts  elsewhere,  whistling  a  little  air,  he 
answered  vaguely,  without  listening  carefully 
to  what  he  was  being  asked — then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  turned  off  to  his  own  regions.  Good 
night!  And  he  was-  no  longer  there.  One 
caught  only  at  his  reflection  in  the  water, 
which  escaped  from  between  one's  fingers. — 
And  Philip,  like  a  lover  disdained,  felt  all 
his  value  now  and  experienced  the  attraction 
of  the  mystery  in  this  heart  which  he  had 
lost. 

The  key  to  the  enigma  came  to  him  by 
pure  chance.  As  he  was  coming  home  in 
the  evening  by  Boulevard  Montparnasse,  in 
the  dart  he  passed  Pierre  and  Luce.  He 
was  afraid  they  might  have  noticed  him. 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  91 

But  they  cared  little  for  what  surrounded 
them.  Closely  pressed  together,  Pierre  sup- 
porting his  arm  on  the  arm  of  Luce  and 
holding  her  hand  with  fingers  interlaced, 
they  strolled  along  with  short  steps  immersed 
in  the  hungry  and  gluttonous  tenderness  of 
Eros  and  Psyche  as  they  lie  at  length  on  the 
nuptial  couch  in  the  Farnesina.  The  close 
embrace  of  their  gaze  fused  them  into  a 
single  being  like  a  waxen  group.  Philip, 
leaning  against  a  tree,  looked  upon  them  as 
they  passed,  stopped,  went  on  and  disap- 
peared in  the  dark.  And  his  heart  was  full 
of  pity  for  the  two  children.  He  thought : 

"My  life  is  sacrificed.  So  be  it  I  But  it 
is  not  right  to  take  those  also.  If  at  the 
least  I  could  pay  for  their  happiness!" 

The  next  morning,  in  spite  of  his  polite 
inattention,  Pierre  noticed  vaguely— in  actual 
fact  not  at  once,  but  after  some  reflection — 
the  affectionate  tone  of  his  brother  with  him. 
And,  getting  half  awake,  he  perceived  his 
kind  eyes  which  he  had  not  noticed  before. 
Philip  looked  at  him  with  such  clarity  that 
Pierre  had  an  impression  that  this  gaze 


92!  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

was  scrutinizing  him;  and  awkwardly  he 
hastened  at  once  to  push  the  shutter  over  his 
secret.  But  Philip  smiled,  rose,  and  putting 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder  proposed  that  they 
should  take  a  turn  in  the  open.  Pierre  could 
not  resist  the  new  confidence  which  was  ten- 
dered him  and  together  they  proceeded  to  the 
Luxembourg  near  at  hand.  .The  big  brother 
had  kept  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
younger  and  the  latter  felt  himself  proud  of 
the  re-established  accord.  His  tongue  was 
loosed.  They  talked  animatedly  of  intel- 
lectual things,  of  books,  their  reflections  on 
men,  their  new  experiences — of  everything 
except  the  subject  both  were  thinking  about. 
It  was  like  a  tacit  convention.  They  were 
happy  to  feel  themselves  intimate,  with  a 
secret  between  them.  While  chatting  Pierre 
inquired  of  himself: 

"Does  he  know?  But  how  could  he 
know?" 

Philip  observed  him  as  he  chattered  along 
and  kept  on  smiling.  Pierre  ended  by  stop- 
ping short  in  the  midst  of  a  sentence. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE    ,       93 

"Nothing.  I'm  just  looking  at  you.  I 
am  delighted  with  you." 

They  shook  hands.  While  they  were 
returning  Philip  said: 

"Are  you  happy?" 

Without  speaking  Pierre  nodded  with  his 
head — yes. 

"You  are  right,  my  boy.  A  great, 
beautiful  thing  is  happiness.  Take  my 
portion  .  .  ." 

In  order  not  to  trouble  him,  Philip  during 
his  furlough  avoided  making  any  allusion 
to  the  near  incorporation  of  Pierre's  class  in 
the  army.  But  on  the  day  of  his  departure 
he  could  not  prevent  himself  from  expressing 
his  anxiety  at  seeing  his  young  brother 
exposed  very  soon  to  the  trials  which  he  knew 
only  too  well.  Scarcely  did  a  shadow  cross 
the  brow  of  the  young  lover.  He  drew  his 
eyebrows  a  bit  together,  blinked  with  his  eyes 
as  if  to  drive  off  a  troublesome  vision,  and 
said: 

"Enough !     Later  on !     'Chi  lo  sa?" 

"We  know  it  only  too  well,"  said  Philip. 

"What  in  any  case  I  do  know,"  said 


94  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

Pierre,  vexed  that  he  should  insist,  "is  that 
when  I  am  down  there  I  for  my  part  shall 
do  no  killing." 

Without  contradicting  him,  Philip  smiled 
sorrowfully,  knowing  well  what  the  implac- 
able power  of  the  crowd  does  with  weak  souls 
and  with  their  will. 


MARCH  was  back  again  with  a  longer  day 
and  the  first  songs  of  birds.  But  along  with 
the  days  increased  the  sinister  flames  of  the 
war.  The  air  was  feverish  with  waiting 
for  springtime — and  waiting  for  the  cata- 
clysm. One  heard  the  monstrous  rumbling 
grow  in  intensity,  the  arms  of  millions  of 
enemies  clashing  together,  heaped  up  for  the 
past  months  against  the  dyke  of  the  trenches, 
and  all  ready  to  spill  over  like  a  tidal  bore 
upon  the  He  de  France  and  the  nave  of  La 
Cite.  The  shadow  of  frightful  rumors 
preceded  the  plague;  a  fantastic  report  of 
poisoned  gases,  of  deadly  venom  scattered 
through  the  air,  which  was  about,  so  it  was 
said,  to  descend  on  whole  provinces  and 
destroy  everything  like  the  asphyxiating 
overflow  from  Pelee  Mountain.  Finally  the 
visits  of  bombing  Gothas,  coming  oftener 

95 


9.6  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

and  of tenerf  cleverly  kept  up  the  nervousness 
of  Paris. 

Pierre  and  Luce  continued  to  refuse  to 
recognize  anything  about  them,  but  the  slow 
fever  which  they  breathed  in,  whether  they 
would  or  not,  from  that  atmosphere  heavy 
with  menace,  kindled  the  desire  that  glowed 
in  their  young  bodies.  Three  years  of  war 
had  propagated  in  European  souls  a  free- 
dom of  morals  which  reached  even  the  most 
honest  and  straight.  And  of  the  two  chil- 
dren, neither  one  nor  the  other,  had  any 
religious  beliefs.  But  they  were  protected 
by  their  delicacy  of  heart,  their  instinctive 
modesty.  Only,  in  secret  they  had  decided  to 
give  themselves  completely  one  to  the  other 
before  the  blind  cruelty  of  mankind  should 
separate  them.  They  had  not  spoken  of  this. 
They  said  it  to  themselves  that  evening. 

Once  or  twice  during  the  week  Luce's 
mother  was  kept  at  the  factory  by  her  night 
work.  On  these  nights  Luce,  in  order  not 
to  stay  alone  in  that  desert  quarter,  slept  in 
Paris  with  a  girl  friend.  Nobody  kept 
watch  over  her.  The  two  lovers  took  advan- 


•PIERRE  AND  LUCE  97 

tage  of  this  freedom  to  pass  a  portion  of  the 
evening  together  and  sometimes  they  took  a 
simple  dinner  in  a  little  out-of-the-way 
restaurant.  On  leaving  after  dinner  on  this 
mid-March  evening  they  heard  the  bomb- 
alert  signal  sound.  They  took  refuge  in  the 
nearest  place  as  if  it  were  an  affair  of  a 
rain  shower,  and  for  some  time  amused 
themselves  observing  their  chance  comrades,. 
But  the  danger  seeming  distant  or  no  longer 
there,  although  nothing  had  occurred  to 
announce  the  end  of  the  bomb-warning, 
Luce  and  Pierre,  who  did  not  want  to  get 
home  too  late,  went  en  their  way  chatting 
gaily.  They  followed  an  old  dark  and 
narrow  street  near  Saint  Sulpice.  They  had 
just  passed  a  hackney  coach  standing  idle, 
both  horse  and  driver  asleep,  near  the  gate 
of  a  porte  cochere.  They  were  twenty  steps 
away  and  on  the  other  sidewalk,  when 
everything  about  them  shuddered:  a  red, 
blinding  flash,  a  roll  of  thunder,  a  rain  of 
loosened  tiles  and  broken  windowpanes  I1 
Near  the  buttress  of  a  house  which  made  a 
sharp  projection  into  the  street  they  flattened 


98  PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

themselves  against  the  wall  and  their  bodies 
interlaced.  By  the  gleam  of  the  explosion 
they  had  seen  their  own  eyes  full  of  love  and 
dismay.  And  when  the  darkness  fell  again 
Luce's  voice  was  saying: 

"No,  Pierre.     I  want  no  more." 

And  Pierre  felt  upon  his  own  lips  the  lips 
and  the  teeth  of  the  passionate  girl.  They 
remained  palpitating  in  the  darkness  of  the 
street.  Some  paces  away  some  men,  issuing 
from  the  houses,  picked  the  dying  coachman 
from  among  the  remnants  of  the  smashed 
vehicle;  they  passed  quite  close  to  them  with 
the  unfortunate  man  whose  blood  was  falling 
drop  by  drop.  Luce  and  Pierre  remained 
petrified;  so  closely  knit  together  that  when 
consciousness  revived  in  them  it  seemed  as 
if  their  bodies  had  been  naked  in  the  pres- 
sure. They  loosened  their  hands  and  lips 
grown  together  which  drank  of  the  loved  one 
like  roots.  And,  both  of  them,  they  began 
to  tremble. 

"Let  us  go  home! "  said  Luce,  invaHed  by 
a  sacred  terror. 

She  dragged  him  away. 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  99 

"Luce!  you  will  not  let  me  leave  this  life 
before  .  .  .  ?" 

"Oh,  God,"  said  Luce,  squeezing  his  arm, 
"that  thought  would  be  worse  than  death!" 

"My  love,  my  love! "  they  kept  repeating, 
one  to  the  other. 

Once  more  they  came  to  a  stop. 

"When  shall  I  be  yours?"  said  Pierre. 

(He  could  not  have  dared  to  ask:  "^Vhen 
shall  you  be  mine?") 

Luce  noticed  this  and  was  touched  by  it. 

"Adored  one,"  she  said  to  him,  ".  .  .  very 
soon !  Let's  not  hurry.  You  can  not  desire 
it  more  than  I  wish  it!  .  .  .  Let  us  stay 
this  way  a  little  while.  ...  It  is  splen- 
did !  .  .  .  This  month  longer,  right  to  the 
end!  .  .  ." 

"Until  Easter?"  he  murmured. 

(This  year  Easter  was  the  last  day  in 
March.) 

"Yes,  at  the  Resurrection." 

"Ah,"  quoth  he,  "there's  the  Death  before 
Resurrection." 

"Hush!"  she  interposed,  closing  his 
mouth  with  her  own. 


ioo          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

They  drew  away  from  each  other. 

"This  night,  it's  our  betrothal,"  whis- 
pered Pierre. 

Huddled  against  each  other  while  they 
walked  in  the  shadows,  they  wept  gently  with 
tenderness.  The  ground  crackled  underfoot 
With  the  broken  glass  and  the  sidewalk  was 
bloody.  Death  and  the  night  were  lying 
in  ambush  round  about  their  love.  But 
above  their  heads  like  a  magic  circle  beyond 
the  embrasure  of  the  two  black  walls  in  the 
narrow  street,  as  through  a  chimney,  the  heart 
of  a  star  throbbed  against  the  deep  pulpy 
grain  of  the  sky.  .  .  . 

Lo  and  behold!  The  voices  of  the  bells 
sing  out,  lights  are  rekindled  and  the  streets 
are  animate  once  more.  The  air  is  free  of 
foes.  Paris  breathes  again.  Death  has 
flown. 


THEY  had  come  to  the  day  preceding 
Palm  Sunday.  Every  day  they  saw  each 
other  for  hours  together;  and  they  did  not 
even  try  to  hide  themselves  any  more.  They 
no  longer  had  any  accounts  to  render  the 
world.  By  such  gossamer  threads  were  they 
attached  to  it  and  so  near  to  breaking !  — Two 
days  before,  the  German  grand  offensive  had 
been  started.  The  wave  advanced  along  a 
front  of  nearly  a  hundred  kilometers.  Fast 
following  emotions  caused  the  City  to 
vibrate:  the  explosion  of  Courneuve,  which 
had  shaken  Paris  like  an  earthquake;  the 
incessant  air  bomb-alarms  which  broke  in  on 
sleep  and  wore  out  nerves.  And  on  this 
morning  of  Saturday  after  a  troubled  night 
all  those  who  were  not  able  to  close  an  eyelid 
until  very  late  were  roused  again  by  the 
thunder  of  the  mysterious  cannon  buried  in 

the  far  distance,  which,  beyond  the  Somme, 
101 


102          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

launched  death  in  trial  shots,  as  if  from 
another  planet.  In  the  course  of  the  earlier 
shots,  which  were  attributed  to  the  coming 
back  of  the  aerial  Gothas,  people  had  taken 
refuge  in  a  docile  way  inside  their  cellars; 
but  a  danger  that  continues  becomes  in  time 
a  habit  to  which  life  accommodates  itself; 
and  the  peril  is  not  far  from'  turning  out  an 
attraction  even,  when  the  risks  run  are  com- 
mon to  all  and  are  not  too  great.  Besides, 
the  weather  was  too  lovely;  it  was  a  pity  to 
bury  one's  self  alive:  before  noon  all  the 
world  was  out  of  doors;  and  the  streets  and 
gardens,  the  terraces  of  the  cafes  had  a 
festival  air  on  this  radiant  and  burning 
afternoon. 

It  was  this  afternoon  Pierre  and  Luce  had 
selected  to  pass,  far  from  the  crowd,  in  the 
forest  of  Chaville.  For  the  past  ten  days 
they  had  existed  in  an  uplifted  calm.  Pro- 
found peace  at  the  heart,  and  nerves  on  edge. 
They  had  a  feeling  like  existing  on  an  islet, 
about  which  rushed  a  frantic  current:  a 
vertigo  of  sight  and  hearing  carried  them 
away.  But  with  eyelids  lowered  and  hands 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE          103 

on  ears,  when  the  bolt  is  pushed  on  the  door, 
suddenly  in  one's  inner  deep  there  comes  a 
silence,  a  blinding  silence,  the  moveless 
summer  day,  when  Joy  invisible  like  a  hid- 
den bird  sings  its  song,  fresh  and  liquid, 
like  a  brook.  O  Joy!  magical  singer, 
warblings  of  happiness !  I  know  too  well  it 
suffices  that  a  slit  should  open  between  my 
lids  or  that  my  finger  should  cease  to  push  a 
moment  against  my  ear,  and  the  foam  and 
roar  of  the  stream  will  follow  in.  Frail 
dyke!  Just  to  know  it  so  frail  exalts  the 
mood  of  Joy  which  I  know  is  threatened. 
Peace  and  silence  itself  take  on  a  passionate 
look!  .  .  . 

The  woods  once  reached,  they  held  each 
other  by  the  hand.  The  first  days  of  spring 
are  a  new  wine  that  rises  to  the  head.  The 
youthful  sun  intoxicates  with  the  purest  juice 
of  its  vine.  Light  still  floats  over  the  leaf- 
less wood,  and  athwart  the  bare  branches  the 
blue  eye  of  the  sky  fascinates  the  reason  and 
lulls  it  to  sleep.  .  .  .  Scarcely  did  they 
endeavor  to  exchange  a  few  words.  Their 
tongues  declined  to  finish  a  phrase  once 


io4          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

started.  Their  legs  were  weak  and  they 
hated  to  walk.  Under  the  sunshine  and  the 
silence  of  the  woods  they  tottered.  The  earth 
drew  them.  Just  to  lie  down  in  the  path! 
Just  to  let  themselves  be  carried  along  on  the 
rim  of  the  colossal  wheel  of  the  worlds.  .  .  „ 
They  scrambled  over  the  bank  of  the  way- 
side, entered  a  thicket  and,  side  by  side  on 
the  old  dead  leaves  through  which  violets 
showed  their  buds,  they  stretched  themselves 
out.  The  first  songs  of  the  birds  and  the 
distant  thuds  of  the  guns  mingled  with  the 
village  bells  that  were  proclaiming  the 
festival  of  the  morrow.  The  luminous  air 
vibrated  hope,  faith,  love,  death.  Notwith- 
standing the  solitude  they  spoke  in  whispers. 
Their  hearts  were  oppressed:  by  happiness? 
or  by  sorrow?  They  could  not  have  told. 
They  were  submerged  in  their  dream. 
Lucile,  immobile,  stretched  out,  her  arms 
close  to  her  body,  her  eyes  open,  absorbed 
and  gazing  at  the  sky,  felt  rising  in  her  a 
hidden  suffering  which  since  the  morning  she 
forced  herself  to  drive  away  in  order  not  to 
mar  the  joy  of  the  holiday.  Pierre  laid  his 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  105 

head  on  Luce's  knees  in  the  hollow  of  her 
skirt  like  a  child  who  goes  to  sleep  with  its 
face  close  couched  against  the  warmth  of 
the  stomach.  And  Luce  without  a  word 
caressed  with  her  hands  the  ears  and  eyes, 
the  nose  and  lips  of  her  beloved  one.  Dear 
spiritual  hands  which  seemed,  as  in  the  tales 
about  fairies,  to  have  little  mouths  at  the 
finger-tips!  And  Pierre,  a  thinking  piano, 
divined  the  meaning  of  the  little  waves  that 
sped  under  the  tips,  the  emotions  that  passed 
through  the  soul  of  his  darling.  He  heard 
her  sigh  before  she  had  begun  to  sigh.  Luce 
had  raised  herself  with  her  body  leaning 
forward  and,  with  breathing  oppressed,  she 
moaned  in  a  whisper: 

"Pierre,  oh,  Pierre!" 

Pierre  looked  at  her  troubled. 

"Oh,  Pierre!  What  are  we,  anyway?  .  .  . 
What  is  it  they  want  of  us?  .  .  .  What  do 
we  want?  .  .  .  What  is  this  going  on  within 
us?  These  guns,  these  birds,  this  war,  this 
love.  .  .  .  These  hands,  body,  eyes.  .  .  . 
Where  am  I?  .  .  .  and  what  am  I?" 

Pierre,  who  did  not  recognize  this  expres- 


io6          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

sion  of  bewilderment  in  her,  wanted  to  take 
her  in  his  arms.  But  she  repulsed  him. 

"No!  No!" 

And  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  she 
thrust  face  and  hands  together  into  the  grass. 
Pierre  was  upset  and  begged  of  her: 

"Luce!    .    .    ." 

He  thrust  his  head  close  to  that  of  Luce. 

"Luce,"  he  repeated,  "what's  the  matter 
with  you?  Is  it  against  me?" 

She  raised  her  head. 

"No!" 

And  he  saw  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Are  you  in  trouble?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Tell  me    .    .    ." 

"Ah,  I'm  ashamed,"  she  said.    .    »   • 

"Ashamed?     About  what?" 

"About  everything." 

She  fell  silent. 

Since  the  morning  she  had  been  haunted 
by  a  sorrowful  memory,  painful  and  degrad- 
ing; her  mother,  crazed  by  the  poison  that 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  107 

crept  about  in  the  promiscuous  conditions  of 
the  factories  made  for  luxury  and  for  murder, 
in  those  human  vats,  no  longer  kept  up  any 
restraint  upon  herself.  At  home  she  had 
indulged  in  a  scene  of  furious  jealousy  with 
her  lover,  without  caring  if  her  daughter 
heard;  and  Luce  had  learned  that  her 
mother  was  with  child.  For  her  this  was 
like  a  blot  that  extended  to  herself,  whose 
entire  love,  whose  love  for  Pierre  was  pol- 
luted thereby.  That  is  why  when  Pierre  had 
approached  her  she  had  repulsed  him;  she 
was  ashamed  of  herself  and  of  him.  .  .  . 
Ashamed  of  him?  Poor  Pierre!  .  .  . 

He  remained  there,  humiliated,  and  not 
daring  to  budge  any  more.  She  was  struck 
with  remorse,  smiled  in  the  midst  of  tears 
and,  resting  her  head  on  Pierre's  knees,  said: 

"It  is  my  turn!" 

Still  disquieted,  Pierre  smoothed  her  hair 
as  one  pets  a  cat.  He  murmured: 

"Luce,  what  is  all  this?    Tell  me    .    .    ." 

"Nothing,"  she  responded.  "I've  seen 
sorrowful  things/' 

He  had  too  much  respect  for  her  secrets  to 


iog          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

insist.      But  Luce  went  on  a  few  minutes 
later: 

"Ah,  there  are  moments  .  .  .  One  is 
ashamed  to  belong  to  mankind." 

Pierre  trembled. 

"Yes,"  said  he. 

x  And  after  a  silence,  bending  over,  he  said 
very  low: 

"Forgive  me!" 

Luce  sprang  up  impetuously,  threw  her- 
self on  Pierre's  neck,  repeating : 

"Forgive  me!" 

And  their  mouths  found  each  other. 

The  two  children  felt  the  need  of  con- 
soling one  another,  both  of  them.  ^Without 
saying  it  aloud  they  were  thnking: 

"Luckily  we  are  going  to  die !  The  most 
frightful  thing  would  be  to  become  one  of 
those  men  who  are  proud  of  being  man — to 
destroy,  to  render  vile  .  .  ." 

Lips  touching  lips,  eyelashes  brushing  eye- 
lashes, they  plunged  their  gaze  one  in  the 
other,  smiling  and  with  a  tender  pity.  They 
did  not  tire  of  that  divine  sentiment  which 
is  the  purest  form  of  love.  At  last  they  tore 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE          109 

themselves  from  their  contemplation  and 
Luce,  with  eyes  again  serene,  perceived  once 
more  the  gentle  hue  of  the  sky,  the  sweetness 
of  the  renewing  trees  and  the  breath  of 
flowers. 

"How  lovely  it  all  is ! "  she  exclaimed. 

She  was  thinking: 

"[Why  are  things  so  beautiful?  And  we 
so  poor,  so  mediocre,  so  ugly!  (unless  it  be 
you,  my  love,  unless  it  be  you!)  *  .  ." 

She  gazed  at  Pierre  again: 

"Pshaw!;    jWhat  are  others  to  me?" 

And  with  the  magnificent  illogicality  of 
love  she  burst  out  laughing,  sprang  up  with 
a  leap,  rushed  into  the  wood  and  cried: 
"Catch  me,  catch  me!" 

They  played  like  two  children  all  the  rest 
of  the  day.  And  when  they  were  very  tired 
they  returned  with  slow  steps  toward  the 
valley  filled  like  a  basket  with  the  sheaves 
of  the  setting  sun.  Everything  they  savored 
seemed  new  to  them — with  one  heart  for  two, 
with  two  bodies  for  one. 


THEY  were  five  frieno's  about  tHe  same 
age,  met  together  at  the  house  of  one  of  them, 
five  young  comrades  at  their  studies  whom  a 
certain  conformity  of  mind  and  a  first  sort- 
ing out  of  opinions  had  grouped  together 
apart  from  the  rest.  And  yet  no  two  of  them 
who  thought  the  same  way.  Beneath  the 
pretended  unanimity  of  forty  millions  of 
Frenchmen  there  are  forty  million  brains 
that  keep  right  to  themselves.  [Thought  in 
France  is  like  the  country,  a  state  composed 
of  small  properties.  From  one  bit  of  farm 
to  the  other  the  five  friends  tried  to  exchange 
their  ideas  across  the  hedge.  But  they  did 
that  only  to  affirm  themselves  more  impera- 
tively in  their  several  opinions,  each  for  him- 
self. Each'  one,  for  that  matter,  liberal  in 
mind,  and,  if  not  all  of  them  republicans,  all 
foes  of  intellectual  or  social  reaction,  or  any 

backward  return. 

no 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE          1 1 1 

Jacques  See  was  the  most  blazingly  in 
favor  of  the  war.  This  generous  young  Jew 
had  espoused  all  the  passions  the  spirit  o£ 
France  contained.  All  through  Europe  his 
cousins  in  Israel  espoused  like  him  the  causes 
and  the  ideas  of  their  adopted  countries. 
Moreover,  according  to  their  method,  they 
even  had  a  tendency  toward  an  exaggeration 
of  whatever  they  adopted.  This  fine  fellow, 
with  ardent  but  rather  heavy  voice  and  look, 
with  his  regular  features  as  if  marked  with  a 
stamp  imposed,  was  more  pronounced  in  his 
convictions  than  was  needful,  and  violent  in 
contradiction.  According  to  him,  all  that 
was  necessary  was  a  crusade  made  by  the 
democracies  to  deliver  the  nations  and  extin- 
guish war.  Four  years  of  the  philanthropic 
slaughterhouse  had  not  convinced  him.  He 
was  one  of  those  who  will  never  accept  the 
flat  contradiction  of  facts.  He  had  a  twofold 
pride,  the  secret  pride  of  his  race,  which  race 
he  wished  to  rehabilitate,  and  his  pride  per- 
sonal that  wanted  to  prove  itself  right.  He 
wished  this  all  the  more  because  he  was  not 
entirely  sure  of  it.  His  sincere  idealism 


ii2          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

served  as  a  screen  against  exacting  instincts 
too  long  suppressed  and  to  a  need  for  action 
and  adventure,  which  was  no  less  sincere. 

Antoine  Naude,  he  too,  was  for  the  war. 
But  that  was  because  he  could  not  do  other- 
wise. This  big  honest  young  bourgeois,  with 
his  rosy  cheeks,  placid  and  keen,  who  had  a 
short  breath  and  rolled 'his  r  with  the  pretty 
grace  of  the  provinces  of  the  Centre,  contem- 
plated with  a  quiet  smile  the  enthusiastic 
transports  of  his  friend  See;  or  else  he  knew 
how  on  occasion  to  make  him  climb  a  tree 
with  a  careless  word; — but  the  big,  lazy  fel- 
low took  precious  care  not  to  follow  him  up ! 
What  is  the  use  of  getting  in  a  sweat  for  or 
against  what  does  not  depend  upon  our- 
selves? It  is  only  in  the  tragedies  that  one 
finds  the  heroic  and  loquacious  conflict  be- 
tween duty  and  one's  pleasure.  When  we 
have  no  choice,  we  do  our  duty  without  wast- 
ing words.  It  was  no  jollier  on  that  account. 
Naude  neither  admired  nor  recriminated. 
His  good  sense  told  him  that,  once  the  train 
started  and  the  war  in  motion,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  roll  along  with  it;  there  was  no  other 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  113 

position  to  take.  As  for  searching  after  the 
responsibilities,  that  was  merely  time  lost. 
When  I  am  forced  to  fight  it  gives  me  a  gay 
outlook,  a  pretty  consolation,  to  know  that  I 
might  have  not  fought — if  things  had  really 
been  .  .  .  what  they  haven't  been ! 

The  responsibilities?  Now  for  Bernard 
Saisset  they  were  exactly  the  primordial 
question;  he  was  obstinate  in  disentangling 
that  knot  of  snakes;  or  rather,  like  a  little 
Fury,  he  brandished  the  snakes  above  his 
head.  A  frail  boy,  distinguished  looking, 
impassioned,  too  many  nerves,  burning  with 
a  too  lively  sensitiveness  of  the  brain,  be- 
longing to  the  wealthy  bourgeoisie  and  an 
old  republican  family  which  had  played  a 
part  in  the  highest  offices  of  State,  he  pro- 
fessed, through  reaction,  all  the  ultra-revolu- 
tionary passions.  He  had  inspected  too  near 
at  hand  the  masters  of  the  day  and  what  they 
brought  forth.  He  accused  all  the  govern- 
ments— and  by  preference  his  own.  He 
talked  of  nothing  any  more  but  of  syndical- 
ists and  bolsheviki ;  he  had  just  made  a  dis- 
covery of  them  and  he  fraternized  with  them, 


H4          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

as  if  he  had  known  them  from  infancy. 
Without  knowing  too  well  which,  he  saw  no 
remedy  save  in  a  total  upset  of  society.  He 
hated  war;  but  he  would  have  sacrificed 
himself  with  joy  in  a  war  between  classes — 
a  war  against  his  own  class,  a  war  against 
himself. 

The  fourth  in  the  group,  Claude  Puget, 
sat  by  at  these  jousts  of  words  with  a  cold 
and  somewhat  disdainful  attention.  Com- 
ing from  the  very  undermost  bourgeoisie, 
poor,  uprooted  from  his  province  by  a  pass- 
ing inspector  of  schools  who  remarked  his 
intelligence,  prematurely  deprived  of  the 
intimate  influence  of  his  family,  this  winner 
of  a  Lycee  scholarship,  accustomed  to  depend 
upon  himself  alone,  to  live  only  with  him- 
self, merely  lived  by  himself  and  for  him- 
self. An  egotistic  philosopher  given  to 
analysis  of  the  soul,  voluptuously  immersed 
in  his  introspection  like  a  big  cat  curled  up 
in  a  ball,  he  was  not  moved  at  all  by  the 
agitation  of  the  others.  These  three  friends 
of  his  who  never  could  agree  among  them- 
selves he  put  in  the  same  bag — with  the 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  115 

"populars."  Did  not  all  three  forfeit  their 
social  rank  by  wishing  to  partake  in  the 
aspirations  of  the  mob?  Truth  to  say,  the 
mob  was  a  different  crowd  for  each  of  them. 
But  for  Puget  the  crowd,  whatever  it  might 
be,  was  always  wrong.  The  crowd  was  the 
enemy.  The  intellect  should  remain  alone 
and  follow  its  particular  laws  and  found, 
apart  from  the  vulgar  crowd  and  the  State, 
the  small  and  closed  kingdom  of  thought. 

And  Pierre,  seated  near  the  window,  dis- 
tractedly looked  out  of  doors,  and  dreamed. 
Generally  speaking,  he  mingled  in  these 
juvenile  assaults  with  passion.  But  today 
it  seemed  to  him  a  humming  of  idle  words 
which  he  listened  to  from  so  far  away,  oh, 
so  far  away!  in  a  bored  and  mocking  demi- 
torpidity.  Plunged  in  their  discussions,  the 
others  were  a  long  while  in  remarking  his 
muteness.  But  at  last  Saisset,  accustomed 
to  find  in  Pierre  an  echo  of  his  verbal 
bolshevisms,  was  astonished  at  failing  to 
hear  it  reverberate  any  more  and  put  the 
question  to  him. 


n6          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

Pierre  waked  up  in  a  hurry,  reddened, 
smiled  and  asked: 

"What  were  you  talking  about?" 

They  were  most  indignant. 

"Why,  you  haven't  been  listening  to  any- 
thing!" 

"What,  then,  were  you  brooding  about?" 
asked  Naude. 

A  little  confused,  a  little  impertinent, 
Pierre  replied: 

"About  the  springtide.  It  has  come  back 
all  right  without  your  permission.  It  will 
clear  out  without  our  help." 

All  of  them  crushed  him  with  their  dis- 
dain. Naude  taunted  him  as  a  "poet." 
And  Jacques  See  as  a  poseur. 

Puget  alone  fixed  his  eyes  on  him  with 
curiosity  and  irony  in  them,  his  wrinkled 
eyes  with  their  cold  pupils. 

"Flying  ant!" 

"What?"  questioned  Pierre,  rather  amused. 

"Beware  of  the  wings ! "  said  Puget.  "It's 
the  nuptial  flight.  It  only  lasts  one  hour." 

"Life  does  not  last  much  more,"  said 
Pierre, 


DURING  Passion  Week  they  saw  one 
another  every  day.  Pierre  went  to  see  Luce 
in  her  isolated  house.  The  thin  and  hungry; 
garden  was  waking  up.  They  passed  the 
afternoon  there.  They  felt  now  an  antipathy 
toward  Paris  and  the  crowd,  against  life  also. 
At  certain  moments  even,  a  moral  paralysis 
kept  them  silent,  immovable,  one  close  to  the 
other,  without  a  wish  to  stir.  A  strange  feel- 
ing was  at  work  in  both  of  them.  They  were 
afraid!]  Fear — in  the  measure  that  the  day 
approached  when  they  should  give  themselves 
the  one  to  the  other — fear  through  excess  of 
love,  through  the  purification  of  soul  whichi 
the  ugly  things,  the  cruelties,  the  shameful 
facts  of  life  frightened,  and  which,  in  an 
intoxication  of  passion  and  melancholy, 
dreamed  of  being  delivered  from  it  all.  .  .  . 
They  said  nothing  about  it  to  eacK  otHer. 

The  most  of  their  time  they  passed  in 
117 


ii8j          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

babbling  gently  about  their  future  lodgings, 
their  work  in  common,  their  little  household. 
They  arranged  in  advance,  down  to  the 
smallest  item  of  their  installation,  the  furni- 
ture,, the  wall  papers,  the  spot  for  each  object. 
A  true  woman,  the  evocation  of  these  tender 
nothings,  intimate  and  familiar  images  of 
daily  life,  moved  Luce  sometimes  to  tears. 
They  tasted  the  exquisite  small  joys  of  the 
hearth  of  the  future.  .  .  .  They  knew 
that  nothing  of  that  sort  would  occur — Pierre 
through  the  presentiment  of  his  native  pes- 
simism— Luce  through  the  clairvoyance  of 
love  which  understood  the  practical  impos- 
sibility of  the  marriage.  .  .  .  That  is  why 
they  hasted  to  enjoy  it  in  their  dream.  And 
each  concealed  from  the  other  the  certainty 
felt  that  it  would  not  be  anything  else  but  a 
dream.  Each  one  believed  that  this  secret 
was  personal  and  watched,  deeply  touched, 
over  the  other's  illusion. 

tWhen  they  had  exhausted  the  mournful 
delights  of  the  impossible  future  they  were 
overcome  with  fatigue,  as  if  they  had  lived 
through  all  of  it.  [Then  they  rested  them- 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE          119 

selves,  seated  under  the  arbor  with  the  dried- 
up  vines,  while  the  sun  melted  the  congealed 
sap;  and,  Pierre's  head  on  Luce's  shoulder, 
they  listened  dreamily  to  the  humming  of  the 
earth.  Behind  the  passing  clouds  the  young 
sun  of  March  played  bo-peep,  laughed  and 
disappeared.  Clear  sunrays,  somber  shad- 
ows ran  across  the  plain  as  in  a  soul  run 
joys  and  sorrows. 

"Luce,"  said  Pierre  abruptly,  "don't  you 
recollect?  ...  It  was  long,  long  ago.  .  .  . 
Even  then  we  were  like  this.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  said  Luce,  "that's  true.  All  of  it, 
I  remember  all.  .  .  .  But  where  were 
we?  .  .  ."• 

iTtiey  amused  tfiemselves  by  trying  to  recall 
under  what  shapes  they  had  known  one 
another  before.  Already  as  human  beings? 
Perhaps.  But  certainly  at  that  time  Pierre 
was  the  girl  and  Luce  the  lover.  .  .  .  Birds 
in  the  air?  [When  she  was  a  small  child  her 
mother  told  Luce  that  she  had  been  a  little 
wild  goose  that  had  fallen  down  the  chim- 
ney; ah!]  she  had  thoroughly  broken  Her 
wings!]  ,  .  ,  But  where  particularly  they 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

enjoyed  finding  themselves  again  was  in  the 
elementary  fluid  forms  that  penetrate  one 
another,  twist  about  and  untwist  like  the 
volutes  of  a  dream  or  else  of  smoke:  white 
clouds  that  dissolve  in  the  gulf  of  the  sky, 
little  waves  that  play  about,  the  rain  on  the 
soil,  the  dew  on  the  bush,  seeds  of  dandelion 
that  swim  at  the  beck  of  the  air.  .  .  .  But 
the  wind  carries  them  away.  Provided  it 
does  not  begin  to  blow  again  and  that  we 
shall  not  lose  each  other  any  more  for  all 
eternity!  .  .  . 

But  he  decided: 

"As  for  me,  I  believe  that  we  never  did 
quit  one  another;  we  were  together  just  as 
we  are  now,  lying  against  each  other;  only, 
we  were  asleep  and  we  dreamed  dreams. 
From  time  to  time  we  awake.  .  .  .  |With 
difficulty.  ...  I  feel  your  breath,  your 
cheek  against  mine.  .  .  .  One  makes  a 
great  effort;  we  bring  our  mouths  together. 
.  .  .  One  falls  back  asleep.  .  .  .  Dar- 
ling, darling,  I  am  here,  I  hold  your  hand, 
don't  let  me  go!  .  .  .  Now  it  is  not  quit* 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE          121 

yet  the  hour,  spring  hardly  shows  the  end  of 
his  icy  nose.  .  .  ." 

"Like  yours,"  said  Luce. 

"Very  soon  we  shall  awake  on  a  fine  sum- 
mer's day.  .  .  ." 

"We  ourselves  shall  be  that  fine  day  of 
summer,"  says  Luce. 

"The  warm  shade  of  the  limetrees,  the 
sun  through  the  branches,  the  bees  that 
sing.  .  .  ." 

"The  peach  on  the  warm  wall  and  its  per- 
fumed pulp.  .  .  ." 

"The  noon  spell  of  the  harvesters  and 
their  golden  sheaves.  .  .  ." 

"The  lazy  cattle  that  chew  their  cud. 
» 

"And  at  evensong,  by  the  sunset  like  a 
flowerset  pool,  the  liquid  light  that  runs 
across  the  tops  of  the  fields.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  we  shall  be  everything,"  quoth 
Luce,  "everything  that  is  good  and  sweet  to 
see  and  to  have,  to  kiss  and  to  eat,  to  touch 
and  inhale.  .  .  .  What's  left  over  we 
shall  leave  to  them,"  she  added,  pointing  to 
the  city  and  its  smoke  wreaths. 


122          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

She  laughed.  LThen,  kissing  her  friend, 
she  said: 

"We  have  chanted  our  little  duet  well. 
$Vhat  do  you  say,  my  friend  Pierrot?" 

"Yea,  verily,  Jessica,"  he  replied. 

"My  poor  Pierrot,"  she  returned,  "we  are 
none  too  well  equipped  for  this  world,  where 
people  know  how  to  sing  nothing  else  but  the 
Marseillaise!,  .  .  ." 

"Good  enough  if  they  even  knew  how  to 
sing  that!" 

"We  have  got  off  at  the  wrong  station,  we 
left  the  train  too  early."  ' 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Pierre,  "that  the  next 
station  would  have  been  still  worse.  Can 
you  see  us,  my  darling,  in  the  social  fabric  of 
the  future — the  hive  they  promise  us,  where 
none  will  have  the  right  to  live  except  for  the 
queen  bee's  service  or  for  the  republic?" 

"Laying  eggs  from  morning  to  night  like 
a  mitrailleuse  or  from  morning  to  night  lick- 
ing the  eggs  of  others.  .  .  .  JThank  you 
•for  that  choice! "  said  Luce. 

"Oh,  Luce,  little  ugly  one,  how  ugly  you 
talk,"  said  Pierre  laughing. 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE          123 

"Yes,  it's  very  bad,  I  know  it.  I  am  good 
for  nothing.  Nor  you  either,  my  friend. 
You  are  just  as  ill  fitted  for  killing  or  maim- 
ing men  as  I  am  for  sewing  them  up  again, 
like  those  wretched  horses  when  they  are 
ripped  up  at  the  bullfights,  so  that  they  can 
serve  again  at  the  next  affray.  [We  two  are 
useless  beings  and  dangerous,  who  have  the 
ridiculous,  criminal  pretention  to  live  only 
in  order  to  love  those  we  do  love,  likewise  my 
little  lover  lad  and  my  friends,  honest  people 
and  little  children,  the  good  light  of  the  day, 
also  good  white  bread  and  everything  that  is 
pretty  and  right  for  me  to  put  in  my  mouth. 
It's  shameful,  it's  shameful !  Blush  for  me, 
Pierrot  I  .  .  .  But  we  shall  be  well  pun- 
ished!1 There  is  going  to  be  no  place  for 
us  in  that  factory  of  the  State,  without  rest 
and  without  truce,  which  the  earth  will  be 
soon.  .  .  .  Luckily  we  shall  not  be  here  I" 

"Yes,  what  happiness!"  quoth  Pierre. 

"//  in  thine  arms,  O  Lady  of  my  heart, 
I  die,  to  greater  fame  I'll  not  aspire. 
Content  upon  thy  bosom  to  expire 
Whilst  kissing  thee  and  thus  from  Uving  part. . ,  «* 


124          PIERRE  AND,  LUCE 

"Well,  little  darling,  what  sort  of  a  fashion 
is  that?" 

"Nevertheless  it  is  after  a  good  old  French 
mode.  It's  by  Ronsard,"  said  Pierre: 

**    .    .    else  I  would  only  claim 
rA  century  hence,  sans  glory  and  sans  fame 
Slothful  to  die  upon  thy  lap,  Cassandra.    .    .    /* 

"A  hundred  years!"  sighed  Luce.  "He 
doesn't  ask  much!  .  .  ."- 

"Or  7  mistake,  or  more  delights  are  heaped 
In  death  Uke  that  than  all  the  honors  reaped 
By  Caesar  great  or  firebolt  Alexander." 

"Naughty,  naughty,  naughty  little  scamp ! 
have  you  no  shame?  In  this  epoch  of 
heroes!" 

"There  are  too  many,"  said  Pierre.  "I 
would  rather  be  a  little  fellow  who  loves,  a 
babe  of  a  man." 

"The  babe  of  a  woman  who  still  has  on 
his  lips  the  milk  from  my  breast,"  cried 
Luce,  seizing  him  round  the  neck.  "My 
babe,  my  own!," 


SURVIVORS  of  those  days  who,  since  then, 
have  been  witness  to  the  dazzling  change  of 
fortune,  will  have  forgotten  doubtless  the 
menacing  heavy  flight  of  the  dark  wing 
which,  during  that  week,  covered  the  Isle  de 
France  and  touched  Paris  with  its  shadow. 
Joy  does  not  take  further  stock  in  past 
trials. — The  German  drive  reached  the  line 
of  its  summit  between  Holy  Monday  and 
Holy  Wednesday.  The  Somme  traversed, 
Bapaume,  Vesle,  Guiscard,  Roye,  Noyon, 
Albert  carried.  Eleven  hundred  guns  taken. 
Sixty  thousand  prisoners.  «  >  .  Symbol 
of  the  land  of  grace  trampled  upon,  on  Holy 
Tuesday  died  Debussy  the  harmonious.  A 
lyre  that  is  snapped.  .  .  .  "Poor  little 
expiring  Greece!"  What  will  remain  of 
it?  A  few  chiseled  vases,  a  few  perfect 
stelae  which  the  grass  will  invade  from  the 

125 


126          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

Path  of  Tombs.  Immortal  vestiges  of 
ruined  Athens.  .  .  . 

As  from  the  height  of  a  hill,  Pierre  and 
Luce  watched  the  shadow  that  moved  upon 
the  town.  Still  wrapped  in  the  rays  of  their 
love,  they  waited  without  fear  for  the  end  of 
the  brief  day.  Now  they  would  be  two  in 
the  night.  Like  to  the  evening  Angelus 
there  rose  up  to  them,  conjured  up,  the  volup- 
tuous melancholy  of  the  lovely  chords  of 
Debussy  which  they  had  so  greatly  loved. 
More  than  it  had  ever  done  in  any  other 
time,  music  responded  to  the  need  of  their 
hearts.  Music  was  the  only  art  which  ren- 
dered the  voice  of  the  delivered  soul  behind 
the  screen  of  forms. 

On  Holy  Thursday  they  walked,  Luce  on 
Pierre's  arm  and  holding  his  hand,  along  the 
streets  of  the  suburb,  soused  with  the  rain. 
Gusts  of  wind  scurried  over  the  moistened 
plain.  They  noted  neither  rain  nor  wind, 
neither  the  hideousness  of  the  fields  nor  the 
muddy  ways.  They  seated  themselves  on 
the  low  wall  of  a  parK,  a  section  of  which 
had  recently  fallen  in.  Under  Pierre's 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE          127 

umbrella,  whicli  scarcely  protected  her  head 
and  shoulders,  Luce,  her  legs  hanging  down 
and  her  hands  wet,  her  rubber  coat  all 
steeped,  looked  at  the  water  dripping  down. 
When  the  wind  stirred  the  branches  a  little 
fire  of  drops  sounded  "clop,  clop!"  Luce 
was  silent,  smiling,  tranquilly  luminous.  A 
profound  joy  bathed  them. 

"Why  does  one  love  so  much?"  said 
Pierre. 

"Ah,  Pierre,  you  do  not  love  me  so  very 
much  if  you  ask  that." 

"I  ask  you  that,"  said  Pierre,  "in  order 
to  make  you  say  what  I  know  just  as  well  as 
you." 

"You  want  me  to  give  you  some  compli- 
ments. But  you'll  be  neatly  caught.  For  if 
you  know  why  I  love  you,  I  for  my  part  do 
not  know  Why." 

"You  don't  know?"  said  Pierre  in  con- 
sternation. 

"Why  no!"  (She  was  laughing  in  her 
sleeve.)  "And  there  is  no  need  at  all  why  I 
should  know.  When  one  asks  why  some- 
thing is,  it  means  that  one  is  not  sure  about 


128          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

it,  that  the  thing  is  not  good.  Now  that  I 
do  love,  no  more  why!  No  more  where  or 
when  or  for,  nor  how  either!  My  love  is, 
my  love  is!  All  beside  may  exist  if  it 
cares  to." 

Their  faces  kissed  each  other.  The  rain 
took  advantage  of  that,  gliding  under  the 
awkward  umbrella  in  order  to  brush  with  its 
fingers  their  hair  and  cheeks;  between  their 
lips  they  drank  in  a  little  cold  drop. 

Pierre  remarked : 

"But  the  others?" 

"What  others?"  quoth  Luce. 

"The  poor,"  answered  Pierre.  "All  those 
who  are  not  us?" 

"Let  them  do  as  we  do !     Let  them  love ! " 

"And  be  loved?  Luce,  all  the  world  can 
not  do  that." 

"Why,  yes!" 

"Why,  no.  You  don't  realize  the  value 
of  the  gift  you  have  made  me." 

"To  give  one's  heart  to  love,  one's  lips  to 
the  beloved  is  to  give  one's  eyes  to  the  light; 
it  isn't  giving,  it's  taking." 

"There  are  blind  people." 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE  129 

"We  cannot  cure  them,  Pierrot.  Let's  do 
the  seeing  for  them ! " 

Pierre  remained  silent. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked  she. 

"I  am  thinking  that  on  this  day,  very  far 
from  us,  very  near,  He  suffered  the  Passion, 
He  who  came  on  earth  to  cure  the  blind." 

Luce  took  his  hand: 

"Do  you  believe  in  Him?" 

"No,  Luce,  I  believe  no  longer.  But  he 
remains  always  the  friend  of  those  he  has 
accepted,  even  once,  at  his  table.  And  you, 
do  you  know  him?" 

"Hardly,"  responded  Luce.  "They  never 
talked  to  me  about  him.  But  without  know- 
ing him  I  love  him.  .  .  .  For  I  know  that 
he  loved." 

"Not  as  we  do." 

"Why  not?  We  ourselves  have  a  poor 
little  heart  that  knows  only  how  to  love  you, 
my  love.  But  He;  He  loved  all  of  us.  But 
it's  always  the  same  love." 

"Would  you  like  we  should  go  tomorrow," 
asked  Pierre,  much  moved,  "in  honor  of  His 


130          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

death?  .  .  .  I  was  told  that  they  will  have 
fine  music  at  Saint  Gervais! " 

"Yes,  I  would  love  well  to  go  to  church 
with  you  on  that  day.  I  am  sure  He  will 
give  us  welcome.  And  being  nearer  to  Him, 
one  is  nearer  each  to  the  other. 

They  fell  silent.  .  .  .  Rain,  rain,  rain. 
The  rain  falls.  The  night  falls. 

"At  this  hour  tomorrow,"  said  she,  "we 
shall  be  down  there." 

The  fog  was  penetrating.  She  gave  a 
little  shudder. 

"Darling,  you  are  not  cold?"  he  asked, 
disquieted. 

She  rose: 

"No,  no.  Everything  is  love  to  me.  I 
love  everything  and  everything  loves  me. 
fThe  rain  loves  me,  the  wind  loves  me,  the 
gray  sky  and  the  cold — and  my  little  greatly 
beloved.  .  .  ." 


FOR  Holy  Friday  the  heavens  remained 
clothed  in  their  long  gray  veils;  but  the  air 
was  soft  and  calm.  In  the  streets  one  saw 
flowers,  jonquils,  stocks.  Pierre  took  a  few 
which  she  kept  in  her  hand.  They  followed 
the  peaceful  Quai  des  Orfevres  and  passed 
along  the  base  of  pure  Notre-Dame.  The 
charm  of  the  Old  City,  clothed  in  a  discreet 
light,  surrounded  them  with  its  noble  gentle- 
ness. On  the  Place  Saint  Gervais  pigeons 
flew  up  under  their  feet.  They  followed 
them  with  their  eyes  about  the  f  agade  of  the 
church;  one  of  the  birds  settled  on  the  head 
of  a  statue.  At  the  top  of  the  steps  to  the 
parvis  before  the  church,  as  they  were  about 
to  enter,  Luce  turned  about  and  perceived  in 
the  midst  of  the  crowd  a  few  steps  away  a 
little  girl  with  reddish  hair,  about  a  dozen 
years  old,  leaning  against  the  portal,  both 
raised  above  her  head,  who  was  looK- 

131 


PIERRE  AND;  LUCE 

ing  at  them.  She  had  the  fine  and  some- 
what archaic  face  of  some  little  cathedral 
statue,  with  an  enigmatic  smile,  graceful, 
shrewd  and  tender.  Luce  smiled  also  at  her 
while  calling  Pierre's  attention  to  her.  But 
the  little  girl's  gaze  passed  over  her  head 
and  suddenly  changed  to  fright.  And 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  the  child 
vanished. 

"What  is  the  matter  witK  her?"  asked 
Luce. 

But  Pierre  did  not  look'. 

They  entered.  Above  their  heads  the 
dove  was  cooing.  Last  noise  from  outside. 
The  voices  of  Paris  were  quenched.  The 
fresh  air  ceased.  The  hangings  of  the 
organ,  the  lofty  vaultings,  the  curtain  of 
stones  and  sounds  parted  them  from  the 
world. 

They  installed  themselves  in  one  of  the 
side  aisles  between  the  second  and  the  third 
chapel  on  the  left  as  you  enter.  In  the 
hollow  of  a  pier  both  of  tKem  croudheS, 
seated  on  some  steps,  hidden  from  the  rest 
of  the  assembly.  Turning  their  backs  to 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE          133 

the  choir,  on  raising  their  eyes  they  saw  the 
summit  of  the  altar,  the  crucifix  and  the 
stained  windows  of  a  lateral  chapel.  The 
beautiful  old  chants  wept  out  their  pious 
melancholy.  They  were  holding  hands,  the 
two  little  pagans,  before  the  Great  Friend, 
in  the  church  all  swathed  in  mourning. 
And  both  of  them  at  the  same  time  mur- 
mured in  a  low  voice: 

"Great  Friend,  before  your  face  I  take 
him,  I  take  her.  Unite  us!  You  see  our 
hearts." 

And  their  ringers  remained  joined  and 
interlaced  like  the  straw  of  a  basket.  They 
were  one  single  flesh  which  the  waves  of 
music  passed  through  with  their  shivering 
notes.  They  took  to  dreaming,  as  if  they 
lay  in  the  same  bed. 

Luce  saw  again  in  her  thought  that  little 
girl  with  reddish  hair.  And  behold  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  recalled  how  she  had 
seen  her  before  in  a  dream  the  past  night. 
She  could  not  reach  the  point  of  knowing 
whether  that  was  actually  true,  or  if  she  were 
projecting  the  vision  of  the  present  back  to 


i34          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

the  past  slumber.  Then,  weary  of  the 
effort,  her  thoughts  allowed  themselves  to 
float. 

Pierre  pondered  over  the  days  of  his 
short,  expended  life.  The  lark  that  rises 
from  the  misty  plain  to  reach  the  sun  .  .  . 
How  far  it  is!  How  high  it  is!  Will  it 
ever  be  reached?  .  .  .  The  fog  thickens. 
There  is  no  earth  any  more,  there  are  no 
heavens  any  more.  And  strength  gives 
out  >  •;'  ,  Suddenly,  while  beneath  the 
vault  of  the  choir  a  Gregorian  vocalise 
trickled  down,  the  jubilant  song  gushed 
forth,  and  out  from  the  shadows  emerges 
the  little  shivering  form  of  the  lark  that 
swims  on  the  sea  of  light  without  shore.  .  .  . 

A  pressure  of  their  fingers  recalled  to 
them  that  they  were  swimming  together. 
They  found  themselves  again  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  church,  closely  pressed  together, 
listening  to  the  beautiful  chants ;  their  hearts 
melted  with  love  and  touched  the  summits 
of  the  purest  joy.  And  both  of  them  desired 
— they  prayed — never  to  descend  to  earth 
again. 


PIERRE  AND  LUCE          134 

At  that  moment  Luce,  who  had  just 
kissed  her  dear  little  comrade  with  a  pas- 
sionate glance — (his  eyes  half  closed  and  his 
lips  parted,  he  appeared  lost  in  an  ecstasy 
of  happiness  and  raised  his  head  in  a  rush 
of  thankful  joy  toward  that  supreme  Power 
which  we  look  for  instinctively  on  high)— 
Luce  saw  with  terror,  in  the  red  and  gilded 
window  of  the  chapel,  the  face  of  the  red- 
dish-haired child  of  the  parvis  who  was 
smiling  at  her.  And  as  she  sat  mute,  frozen 
with  astonishment,  she  saw  once  more  on 
that  strange  visage  the  same  expression  of 
fright  and  of  pity. 

And  at  the  same  instant  the  great  pier 
against  which  they  leaned  their  backs 
moved,  and  down  to  its  very  base  the  entire 
church  trembled.  And  Luce,  whose  heart 
beats  deadened  in  her  the  crash  of  the 
explosion  and  the  shrieks  of  the  crowd,  threw 
herself  without  having  time  to  fear  or  to 
suffer  upon  Pierre,  in  order  to  cover  him 
with  her  body  like  a  hen  with  her  brood — 
upon  Pierre,  who  witH  closed  eyes  was  smil- 
ing with  happiness.  With  a  maternal  move- 


13.6.          PIERRE  AND  LUCE 

ment  she  clasped  the  dear  head  against  her 
bosom  and  that  with  all  her  power;  and, 
coiled  upon  him,  her  mouth  on  his  neck,  they 
shrank  together  to  their  utmost. 

And  the  massive  pier  crumbled  down  upon 
them  with  one  crash. 

THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


7 1955 


RECEIVED 

3'67-J 

.-100m-9,'48(B399sl6)476 


MOV  13 


39312 


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